The director was the sole descendant of Eun Pilhyeong, the founder of both Mokyeon Art Museum and Mokyeon Arts High, and she had been a legendary sunbae at the school. The first time Morin met her at the final interview, she finally understood why Eun Mokyeon was a legend at Mokyeon Arts High.

People meeting the director for the first time were surprised, first, that the head of such a storied museum was so young, then by a beauty that defied description, and finally by the depth of her knowledge and expertise in art. Even an eighty-year-old professor who had spent his entire life studying art history was said to seek her counsel.

“Please be understanding.”

The director tapped her own head lightly with her slender fingers.

“Not at all.”

Morin shook her head with a smile.

“I don’t usually care for crowded places, but I heard Yoan Brzoï directed it.”

That was exactly what someone with a true aesthetic sensibility would say.

“Did you come alone?”

“I came with my brother. What about you, Director?”

“With my husband.”

The seat the director indicated was empty.

“He stepped out to take a call. He’ll probably only make it back near the end. He’s someone who’d rather pore over numbers and graphs than watch a show like this.”

She shrugged as though well used to it.

“Enjoy the show, then.”

The director said this and, with her characteristic unhurried ease, propped her chin in her hand and turned to face the stage.

The last pin light went out, and Bach’s Siciliano swelled into the darkness. The show began. Morin straightened her back like a child being punished. She fixed her eyes on the models stepping out beneath stage lighting that evoked a Mongolian night sky.

True to a production by a celebrated French choreographer and performance artist, it felt like watching a single work of performance art. The models did not walk a conventional long runway but moved across a vast, slowly rotating platform. When they paused mid-walk, their clothes and hair billowed and swept away in reverse, as though time were rewinding. Inside Mahler’s Adagietto, the models dissolved like something carried off by the wind and scattered into the Mongolian night sky like beautiful memories.

The harmony of music, lighting, and the models was breathtaking. The models, who had reportedly undergone special training for this show, gave a flawless performance. Throughout the show, Morin found herself gripping both hands tightly together without realizing it.

Hyungrin had been right.

What did the clothes ever do wrong?

The show was overwhelmingly beautiful.

There were no words for Noh Yoonji’s clothes. Intricate patterns that must have taken the finest craftspeople to construct were rendered in restrained silhouettes. The colors were a feast of shades that seemed not to have existed in the world before, combinations no one should have been able to make work.

Between night and dawn. Between winter and spring. Between the last fallen leaf and the first snow.

Every one of those fleeting lights.

Was this the color of Noh Yoonji’s first love?

The color of youth’s blue, steeped in the violet light of a fading sunset.

When a female model appeared for the final segment, a gasp of delight broke from the audience. A woman appearing in a menswear show likely signaled the brand’s expansion into womenswear.

It was a little black dress with delicate cutout detailing. As the model walked slowly across the platform, smooth legs flashed through the slit that began at the thigh. The clean, straight silhouette fell along the curves of the body without a single excess line, and that restraint made it all the more elegant. Even Morin, who had little interest in clothes, found herself wanting to own it.

The male model who closed the show appeared. A man in a black trench coat walked toward the female model ahead of him. He strode forward with long, quickening steps, but he couldn’t close the distance. Almost touching, almost touching, never quite touching. Morin watched the two of them, transfixed.

The man’s hand grazed the woman’s elbow for the briefest moment, then fell away, and a collective sound of longing rose from the audience. He stopped, looking spent, but she kept walking until she stood directly across from him. The two of them faced each other on the slowly spinning platform. A different density of air moved between them as they held each other’s gaze. The narrative had clearly been built up piece by piece for this single moment. The beautiful silhouettes of their wind-caught clothes reached their fullest effect.

The man began to walk again. The woman stepped forward too. They walked in quiet parallel, eyes steady on each other. The woman walked on and on, and then at some point she stopped. The man stretched out his long legs and walked, and then he began to run, his scarf and coat tails flying. He could reach her now with just one outstretched hand. The woman turned toward him and extended hers. Their hands finally met, and they embraced with fierce abandon. Whistles and applause erupted from the audience. The Mongolian night sky poured down again over the shoulders of the two lovers spinning together on the round platform.

All around her, people cheered. Morin alone sat frozen, watching the two of them.

When the finale ended, Noh Yoonji appeared amid the cheers, surrounded by her models. Ten years, was it? The last time Morin had seen her was in London, the year she started university.

Why is she so thin?

In black cigarette pants and a deep plum-violet shirt, Noh Yoonji was gaunt enough to make Morin wonder if she had an eating disorder. And yet the confidence in her expression and the fierce, piercing look beneath her dark brows were unchanged. Standing at the center of the slowly rotating stage, Noh Yoonji was the undeniable creator and queen of this show. She looked out at the audience from the stage.

Is she looking for him?

The first place Noh Yoonji’s gaze landed was exactly where Morin was sitting.

Their eyes met, and Noh Yoonji gave her signature cynical smile, the kind that came with a dismissive sniff. Then she blew an exaggerated, mocking kiss and turned away. Her black hair swayed down to her waist, and in that moment Morin knew.

Noh Yoonji was coming for Kwon Ikhyeon.

Thud. Thud. Thud.

Whether from the powerful speakers or the Tylenol she had forced down, Morin’s heart pounded in an irregular rhythm.

Dazzling lights, spectacular performances by top-billed guest artists, the finest champagne, catering that made no secret of its premium ingredients. The after-party was as packed as the show itself. She was having the strange experience of watching people she had only ever seen on television move around right in front of her. It felt unreal, like stepping into a vast metaverse.

Morin sipped her sparkling water and watched the director chatting with Yoan Brzoï. The director seemed quite taken with him. She tilted her head slightly toward him and smiled with that languid ease of hers. Chairman Dan Hyeonjae, the director’s husband and Mokyeon Art Museum’s largest patron, stood with his arms crossed, watching the two of them with undisguised displeasure.

She took another sip of sparkling water and looked at Noh Yoonji. Surrounded by press and celebrities, Noh Yoonji drifted through the party like a beach ball in a swimming pool. She threw her head back and laughed at something someone said, then exchanged bisous with a tall man who approached. She looked happier than in any moment Morin had ever known her. And at the same time, lonelier. It was something like watching a queen standing before a great mirror, asking who in the world was the happiest person of all.

Morin set down her glass and reminded herself why she had come today.

Her plan had been to find Noh Yoonji after the show and offer her congratulations. She had genuinely wanted to. As a designer, Noh Yoonji had more than earned it. And she had intended to offer a handshake that landed somewhere between warmth and formality. With her wedding ring on. That was all. But now it suddenly felt unbearably childish. It was her own to begin with, and yet here she was, as though she had to prove why it should be hers. The absurdity of it.

Should I just leave?

No matter how long she waited, Noh Yoonji didn’t seem likely to drift her way. But Morin walking over first and extending her hand was blocked by layers of feelings she couldn’t put into words. She shook her head and gave up trying to examine what she was feeling. She looked around. Hyungrin was nowhere to be seen and wasn’t picking up his phone. The director had also vanished from sight. The air felt stifling and her head throbbed.

「Oppa, my head is killing me so I’m heading out. If you happen to run into Yoonji unnie, tell her congratulations for me.」

After deleting and rewriting it several times, Morin sent Hyungrin the most neutral, matter-of-fact version she could manage. She sent the director a message as well to say she was leaving early, then slipped out of the party. Taxis were nowhere to be found. Morin stepped out onto the terrace to wait for one that wouldn’t arrive for another thirty minutes. The river wind was cold.