Chapter 84

EP.84 Saint

She saved a sinner like me.

The song Amazing Grace, which was translated into Korean in this way, was the most famous hymn that originated from the Anglican Church and is widely sung around the world.

It was a song of praise to the Lord, filled with the composer John Newton's lifelong remorse, who was a former slave trader but repented and became a clergyman.

The alcohol had not yet worn off.

To make a drunk sing for me, God must have a really foul temper.

Contrary to my harsh thoughts, my lips were now drawing a benevolent curve.

With my eyes half-closed but my head held high, I raised my voice in tune with the sound of the string instruments.

The unfiltered light from the sky seemed to exist only for me and the elegant one.

It would be a lie to say it wasn't overwhelming.

But there was a child who was trembling more than I was.

Just the thought that if I didn't become a strong stake to withstand the rapids, the child would drown, made me endure everything.

All the instrument sounds stopped for a moment.

I felt the time had come and opened my mouth.

I began to sing for the Lord, whom I resented.

The clarity of my voice, which came from a dry throat, was something I myself could hardly believe.

While pouring out the lyrics that could not be forgotten, I thought separately, as if I were someone far away.

There was no need to use unnecessary techniques or skills.

I had neither learned such tricks nor intended to learn them.

I knew that this voice, simply by reciting the melody, could produce a deep appeal.

I just vibrated my vocal cords in tune with the notes on the invisible staff.

I only thought about this song.

I firmly believed that a song only gained true sincerity when the singer delved deeply into the song.

Someone had evaluated this song as a charm against death and fierce war.

Perhaps because of this, Amazing Grace also has a high standing as a funeral song.

I suddenly wondered how the composer, who created this song to repent for his life, would react to such a situation.

The scenery around me, seen through my half-open eyes.

People who had been focused only on the saint's impressive appearance now seemed to be moved by my song and took the proper attitude as an audience.

I placed my hands together in front of me as if in prayer.

I temporarily suppressed my anger towards the God who had caused this situation.

The anger that had been rising up my spine turned into a beautiful voice as soon as it passed through my throat, lingering around me.

By the time I finished the second measure,

it seemed that both the singer and the audience were captivated by the saint's voice,

and my narcissism, which was not really narcissism, came back to me once again.

...

Singing, as Plato said, began as an act of consolation to soothe the inevitable pain and sorrow in life.

I deeply resonated with this statement.

The feeling in my chest instantly stimulated my tear glands.

Standing on this platform again, singing the same song as I did in the past,

the faint moments of the past flashed before my eyes.

The happy times of my childhood.

A funeral song for the dead.

The saint's voice was soothing, including myself.

I was crying but trying not to cry.

I forcibly suppressed the overflowing sadness.

But the moisture that welled up was beyond my control.

I blinked my eyelids in resignation.

As if trying to contain all my sadness in a single tear.

A stream of tears ran down my cheek and, aided by the white lighting, fell from my jawline to the floor.

As the part of singing the lyrics ended and the accompaniment began again,

there was a blank stare fixed on me.

It was Danah, of course.

The one who brought me to this stage.

The one who made me sing again.

I was not the main character of this stage.

This stage was prepared for this child.

But the child was clearly very tense.

In this state, it would be impossible to sing.

I smiled kindly at the child again and said,

very softly,

so softly that only Danah could hear it, buried in the sound of the instruments.

"It's your turn."

Thanks to my kind smile,

or perhaps the encouraging words that pushed her back,

the child's anxiety was reduced to just a tail.

I could have encouraged her more, but I stopped there.

A little tension would help, and I also hoped she would solve it on her own.

I watched Danah quietly, like someone who had already crossed the stepping stones and could only watch from the other side,

or like someone cheering on a baby attempting their first somersault.

To my surprise,

as the moment to start the lyrics approached,

the child, who had been stiff all over, began to let out her voice from her throat.

It was a voice

that I could never have.

A voice that I had lost in the past and could never regain.

I was enveloped in the illusion that the pure voice, filled with lost innocence, was shattering the stained glass of the church.

The scattered fragments were conveying the meaning of repentance and funeral to those who witnessed them.

The atmosphere in the church became even more solemn as the child sang quietly,

but it was not at all heavy,

and thus it conveyed mourning to people's hearts without weighing them down.

The imperfect harmonies of the musicians aligned with the child's song.

Perhaps because of her young age,

they were immature and incomplete,

but the voice continued to resonate, feeling even more valuable for that reason.

...

...

The hymn, which seemed to last forever, ended as suddenly as the morning mist or a dream from the night before that could no longer be remembered.

The sound of the violin playing the final note echoed,

and a pleasant silence gently settled over the church.

And in the next moment,

applause echoed from all directions.

The applause, as if replacing the ended song, filled the space without ceasing.

Everyone clapped without holding back,

and not a single person who clapped remained seated.

...

"Hey, no photography inside the church! Ow! Where are you running? Give me your phone?!"

...

I was back in a place I thought I would never return to,

a place I thought I would never come back to again.

What was the point of hiding it?

It was the principal's office.

The orphanage director was waving her hand at me.

"Thank you for coming to see Danah and for helping her so much. This is... "

I was browsing through an internet page I had visited before.

Hangover. It's all because of the alcohol.

It's just a whim, and a spontaneous act by someone who lacks the ability to plan for the future.

Maybe it's an action to prove to someone that easy money is easily spent.

I was justifying to myself that I was doing this because I had too much money now.

The director looked at me and asked cautiously.

"Is this donation for Danah?"

As soon as I heard that, I thought for a moment.

I knew that if I said yes now, the entire donation would be used for Danah.

That wouldn't do.

"It's the same as last time."

There were several reasons, but I knew the subtle things that only those who grew up in orphanages could understand.

And I really thought this would be the last time.

I don't have money to spare.

Donating to a single child who cannot be sustained is bound to lead to a sense of loss someday.

While ten million is a large sum, it is not enough to take responsibility for a child's entire life.

When something that didn't exist appears, people are certainly happy, but when something that existed disappears, people fall into deep despair.

That's what happened to me.

Because I lost so much happiness in an instant,

I ended up living a life worse than a shut-in.

Anyway, I had conveyed my purpose.

I had given the money. Just like that.

I might have been pretending to be nice, but I gave it because I felt like it.

Anyway, I gave it.

So I got up and headed for the door.

I stopped the elderly director, who was trying to straighten her back and follow me, and pulled open the door of the principal's office.

Shall I go now?

After doing so many acts of kindness that weren't even on my schedule, my skin was crawling.

Now I just want to play a game.

I'm also starting to get over being upset with my viewers, and I want to turn on the broadcast when I get home.

"Are you leaving...?"

If this kid hadn't grabbed my sleeve, I would have left like I was burned.

But Danah, somehow knowing I was about to leave, was making a sad face.

Yeah, no matter what you say, I'm leaving.

"I have to go."

"Can't you stay? Can't you stay here?"

"..."

"I'll eat well and study hard, okay? Can't you stay?"

"..."

"I won't fight with the other kids or talk back to the teachers, okay?"

"..."

"Don't go..."

Danah was more reluctant to part than anyone.

Whose stubbornness did she inherit?

Surely not mine.

Yeah, I used to be like this.

The memories of the past, when I made promises that would be of no help to the adults who came to the orphanage, thinking they were my best, came back to me.

I am, of course, a messed-up and foul person, but I didn't want to hurt the child.

What should I do?

What can I do?

Just as I had always done with Danah,

if I recalled how my mother handled such situations in the past, it would be a simple matter to solve.

I don't know how to be kind to a child.

Especially not to a child who is a mirror image of my past