"You... who are you?" he asked as he tried to get himself into a sitting position. Countless hammers were still being hit against his head, but he ignored them.

"My name is Aine," she replied as she sat on the sofa beside him.

"Aniyo?" he confirmed, a hint of a smile tugging at his lips.

Her name was strange. It meant 'no' in Korean.

"An-ya," she said more slowly.

"Anya."

He wondered what her name actually meant.

"That's right. And you?"

"Me..." – he considered what to say – "...no one."

"No one?"

"No one," he repeated.

She looked at him in confusion then nodded slowly before moving to an armchair that was a bit farther away.

The shadow of his smile turned into a full out grin at her lack of subtlety, but she seemed unfazed. In fact, she looked defiant, as if daring him to say anything. Somehow, this amused him to no end.

It had been a while since he had talked to anyone. Aside from the delivery men who came to drop his groceries outside the door, no one came to break his solitary confinement. Even the press, who eventually lost interest in him after he had spent a few uneventful months at rehab, hadn't cared enough to track him down. He had informed his family, though, that he was going away, but he didn't tell them where. He wanted it to be that way, to simply disappear from the face of the earth. He had been too guilty and too ashamed.

Narrowing his eyes, he considered the situation that fate had brought before him. He guessed that she was a foreign tourist seeing as how she didn't speak the language and hadn't recognized him. This little island at the south of the Korean peninsula had certainly attracted lots of them over the years, but his cabin was off the beaten track. She probably got lost and took shelter from the storm.

"I will leave when the rain stops," she said, enunciating her words one by one, piercing the silence that had settled between them. She was pointing towards the windows, where gray skies and never-ending sheets of water obscured everything.

He looked at where she was pointing, grasping her meaning. He thought about his phone, which he still kept for emergencies. It would probably help to check the news.

"Okay," he finally replied as he stood up from the couch. A sudden wave of dizziness hit him and he nearly fell if not for the arm around his waist that held him steady.

"Hey, take it easy," she said. "You vomited a lot last night so you're probably feeling weak."

Aish, jinjja! (Ah, really!)

"No English," he said in frustration, finally giving up on trying to understand what she was saying.

With her help, he made his way to his room's ensuite bathroom. At least his was a one-storey cabin. They managed to get to their destination without incident. As they entered what should have been the place of his death, the smell of vomit and whiskey assailed him. He lurched forward and gagged by the toilet. She rubbed his back while he did so.

Wait, he thought as he remembered something, did she change my clothes?

He looked down at what he was wearing and noticed that he was now dressed in a pajama instead of the jeans and t-shirt that he was sure he wore yesterday. He let out an internal groan as he felt the heat creeping up his skin.

"You okay?" she asked.

"Okay, okay," he replied when the gagging finally stopped. At this point, he didn't have much left to expel.

Still with her help, he stood up and walked to the sink where he washed his face and his mouth. He looked at her in the mirror and noticed that she was a tall woman. He stood at 183 centimeters, but the top of her head was almost at eye-level. Most women barely reached his shoulders.

"Me... alone," he said to her reflection while angling his head towards the toilet.

She seemed to have understood because she nodded her head and made her way out. Once she had left, he did his business then went to find his phone. He found it where he had always kept it – in the top drawer of his bedside table. The only problem was there seemed to be no signal so he couldn't do anything with it.

"Useless piece of junk," he muttered in his own language as he went back to the living room.

There, he found her setting down two bowls of what looked like instant noodles on the coffee table. Right on cue, he heard his stomach grumble. She glanced up, a smile on her face.

Cheonsa, his mind whispered.

"Let's eat," she said, breaking the spell.

As she spoke, she waved a pair of chopsticks in the air, shoving invisible noodles into her mouth. He nearly laughed at that. Nearly, but not quite.

"Kamsahamnida," he said as he sat on the floor in front of the table.

She sat across from him then replied, "You're welcome."

At least she knows that much.

Together, they filled their stomachs in silence. He hadn't realized how hungry he was until then. He savored his bowl of spicy noodles as if it was the most delicious meal he's ever had. All the while, he thought that if he did succeed in killing himself, the taste of ramyeon was something that he would truly miss.

After they had both sated their hunger, they sat there not knowing what to say. Eventually, Aine moved to the piano and once again sat in front of it. He followed her every move.

As she hovered her fingers above the keys, she turned his way and said, "Okay?"

He looked at the glossy ebony instrument made of spruce and maple wood. It was a gorgeous grand Steinway that used to be his pride and joy. He had bought it secondhand when he had made it big.

A familiar sadness washed over him. This time, however, it was tinged with envy. Ever since music had deserted him, he had spent hours, days, and months in search of it. Round and round his head he went, looking through every nook and cranny, yet all his efforts were futile. In the end, the quest had left him empty, exhausted, barely living, but he had kept that piano close as a reminder of all that he had lost.

Now, she sat there, unaware of the sharp claws that the sight of her was digging into his heart. Nevertheless, he shrugged and nodded his head.

With that, she straightened her back and let her fingers brush through the keys, tentatively at first, then with more confidence. He rested his head against the seat of the sofa then looked up to the ceiling as the first gentle notes touched his ears.

The Girl with the Flaxen Hair. Another one by Debussy.

This piece was his favorite, the first one he had ever learned. When his father had told him about the poem that had inspired the composition, he was moved. The image of a girl with golden hair and cherry lips bathed in the glow of clear summer sunlight was forever burned into his mind. As he played the piece over and over again, he had even imagined himself in love with her, just as the poet had probably been.

As the melody grew more sophisticated, with notes weaving and harmonizing to form that perfect climax, his gaze narrowed at the woman who was spinning magic with her fingers. She too glowed as light from the windows encompassed her being. Beautiful. Perfect. An angel that came during the darkest of nights.

And then suddenly, he heard it.