She had decided earlier that afternoon she wanted to sing with Nia, but only if the moment felt comfortable.
The organizers agreed to place them near the end, leaving the choice open until the last minute.
After Lena returned backstage, Soo-bin approached Nia.
Her hands were trembling.
"언니."
Nia knelt slightly so their faces were closer.
"응?"
Soo-bin looked toward the audience.
"사람이 너무 많아요."
There are too many people.
Nia nodded.
"I know."
The child hesitated.
Then asked whether they could sing something familiar.
Nia smiled.
"Of course."
Soo-bin looked toward the piano.
Lena was still standing beside it.
The two girls exchanged a glance.
Then Soo-bin whispered the title.
"Haru Haru."
Nia felt her chest tighten.
She looked toward the child.
"Are you sure?"
Soo-bin nodded slowly.
Then smiled.
"이번에는 무섭지 않아요."
This time, I'm not afraid.
For a moment, Nia couldn't speak.
Then she reached for her hand.
"그럼 같이 부르자."
Then let's sing together.
They walked onto the stage.
Lena remained at the piano.
The audience became quiet.
Min-jae leaned forward.
And Nia looked toward the little girl who had once clung to her hand beneath the streets of Seoul.
Three years earlier, they'd sung in fear.
Tonight, they were choosing to sing because they wanted to.
Nia introduced the song briefly.
She explained that it had become meaningful to her and Soo-bin during a difficult experience years earlier. She didn't describe private medical details or transform the child's frightening memory into entertainment.
She simply said that music could help people feel less alone.
Then she looked toward Soo-bin.
The girl smiled.
Lena began a gentle piano accompaniment.
Nia sang the familiar opening passage of BIGBANG's "Haru Haru," her voice steady and warm. Soo-bin joined at the part she knew, singing softly at first before finding confidence in the sound they were creating together.
The performance wasn't elaborate.
There were no dramatic stage effects.
No expensive lighting equipment.
And no professional orchestra.
Just a pianist, a child, and the woman who once stayed beside her in a subway station.
But the room listened.
Min-jae lowered his head.
He was remembering his wife.
How she used to sing in the kitchen.
How Soo-bin would imitate her.
And how, after she died, the house became so quiet that even ordinary sounds seemed painful.
Now his daughter was singing before an audience.
Not because someone demanded it.
Because she wanted to share a memory that no longer belonged entirely to fear.
Tears ran down his face.
Ji-eun reached for his hand.
Across the room, Denise watched her daughter.