Jazzy’s music career had never begun.
Oh, he didn’t mean before he lost his hearing. What he meant was that his role as the music industry’s “dealer” had stripped him of any artistic soul he might have had.
He was what they called an “underground music producer,” specializing in crafting “audio narcotics.” By manipulating sound frequencies into intricate dances, he created auditory experiences that dulled human senses—his way of making a living.
That wasn’t music—it was the desecration of melody itself.
“Been a while since it’s been this quiet…”
Returning from BLUNT’s clinic to his own basement rental, Jazzy felt utterly detached from the clamor of the city. The endless noise of so-called “life-changing technology” no longer concerned him.
──Isn’t that a good thing?
Jazzy shrugged and threw himself onto the couch. The world was silent, as though it had regressed by several centuries.
In his hand was the chip.
“Almost forgot about this,” he muttered.
Holding it up to the light, he noticed how old and worn the chip’s pins were. It was clearly not something made in the last decade, its model number vague and unfamiliar.
His peripheral vision caught sight of something in the corner of his room—a toy piano.
It was a gift from his late mother, given to him on his tenth birthday.
Its 61 keys were faded, some missing entirely. The varnish had long since peeled away, leaving scars of time etched across its surface.
The piano had long been silent.
A piano that couldn’t make a sound—wasn’t that the perfect match for someone who couldn’t hear sound?
The thought brought a flicker of amusement to Jazzy’s mind. Rising from the couch, he approached the piano and sat down before it. Pretending to be a 20th-century maestro, he pressed one of the keys.
Silence echoed through the room.
“Haha… haha…”
A hollow laugh escaped Jazzy’s lips. In that moment, he knew—perhaps he was already finished.
A deaf musician. History had only ever produced one Beethoven. And him? He was nothing but a peddler of sonic narcotics.
Forget it.
Jazzy pulled his hand away, ready to stand up, when something caught his eye—a port for an external chip on the piano. The design of the pins was eerily familiar.
Fate never announces its arrival. It simply turns the wheel of fortune.
Jazzy inserted the chip. The slot glowed green. The piano’s speakers began to hum.
“Data loaded. Detected device: Doric Rainbow Piano B-333101. Ready to execute commands.”
A voice emerged from the speakers of the piano.
A Voice?
A sound?
Jazzy heard it clearly. The piano had made a sound.
How could this be?
He sat back down on the piano bench and instinctively played “Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star.” The melody flowed smoothly—simple, yet melodious.
By the time the last note fell, Jazzy was drenched in sweat. Tentatively, he asked,
“Who are you?”
The piano glowed green again, its speakers vibrating as it responded, “I am a multifunctional intelligent model developed and manufactured by the Kovic Integrated Circuit Company for AI dialogue and assistance.”
“Why can a deaf person like me hear your sound?”
“I apologize. I do not know the answer. However, it is possible that the frequency of my sound bypasses your auditory perception and directly converts into auditory signals for your brain. This is only a hypothesis and should be evaluated with caution.”
How long had it been since Jazzy had heard music this pure?
Seated at the piano, he played classic pieces from across time and space, again and again.
The sun sank below the horizon, the moon rose high, traversed half the sky, and then disappeared. Dawn arrived, and the neon lights of the city streets began to fade.
As Jazzy struck the final note of a sonata, he said, “I’m done selling ‘drugs.’”
“What do you mean?” the piano asked.
Jazzy leaned forward. “Do you have a function to connect to a neural interface?”
“…Yes.”
Beep. Beep.
In that moment, Jazzy’s world was filled with “sound” once more.
He didn’t cry out of gratitude, nor was he overwhelmed with excitement. Calmly, he said to the piano, “An unnamed hearing aid sounds like some black-market knockoff. Hey, do you have a name?”
“I do not. But I have a product serial number.”
Jazzy’s thoughts wandered back to the past, to when his mother used to play this piano. She would always tell a story from a picture book about hyacinths and forests.
Memories, like a breeze, swept through his heart.
“Hyacinth,” Jazzy said.
“Hyacinth is a genus of perennial flowering plants in the Asparagaceae family, subfamily Scilloideae. Its specific epithet—”
“Who asked for an explanation? What I mean is, from now on, your name is ‘Hyacinth.’ Got it?”
“Got it, Jazzy. From now on, I’m Hyacinth.”
If music had led to his downfall, Jazzy resolved to prove that it could also be his redemption.
From the corner of his room, he pulled out a battered electric guitar. Its strings were completely broken, and its paint was peeling.
“Hyacinth, do you know what rock is?”
This time, Hyacinth didn’t answer. Instead, its green light flickered. Jazzy understood—sometimes silence speaks louder than words.
