The Sound of Rain

Rain was tapping against the window.

I was listening to that sound in a room with the lights off. On the table by the window lay a single book with worn edges. It was the author's copy of "The Sound of the Rainy Season," which I couldn't throw away even after it went out of print.

I didn't need to open the book. I still vividly remembered where the sentences broke on which page, and which words I couldn't bring myself to fix until the very end. The problem was that the events that happened afterward were clearer than the days I spent writing it.

I placed my hand on the book cover. My name was printed below the title.

Lee Ye-hyun.

People don't call me by that name anymore. There was another name the Association gave me and the world accepted.

Mimesis.

It was raining on the day that name was first attached to me.

---

The Rainy Season I Wrote

When I was young, I wasn't good at speaking.

It wasn't that I had nothing to say. When I tried to let the words out, they would get twisted and tangled on my tongue. If someone was waiting for my answer, my mind would go even blanker. In the end, I would just lower my head, and the words that came to me too late had to be written down in a notebook once I got home.

In the notebook, no one rushed me. If I wrote a sentence and didn't like it, I could erase it, and in its place, I could put a more precise word. Moments that passed me by in reality could be caught within the stories I wrote.

That's why I wanted to be a writer.

My first novel was published when I was twenty. The initial print run was small, and the book, tucked away in a corner of the new releases section at the bookstore, was pushed behind other people's books in less than a week. Still, I loved it. I stroked the cover many times and took a photo of the three characters of my name, 'Lee Ye-hyun,' written on the copyright page. I believed that if I worked hard for a long time, more people would read it someday.

That belief wore down bit by bit over the next two years.

When I sent out manuscripts, there was either no reply or a polite, short rejection email. The publishers all said the same thing in different words. It lacks marketability. It doesn't fit our direction. We hope to see you again at a better opportunity. I wrote until dawn and went to cafes, convenience stores, and logistics warehouses in the morning. While working, if my phone rang, I checked it just in case, and if the sender was a publisher, I hid in the bathroom to open the email.

I decided to try writing just one last time. I thought if even this didn't work, I'd let go of my lingering attachment. At the very least, I wanted to give up after writing everything I wanted to write.

The manuscript I started then was "The Sound of the Rainy Season."

It took three and a half years to complete. During those three rainy seasons, it rained inside the file as well. Every time I overhauled the manuscript, I kept the previous versions by date, and I gathered my handwritten concepts and research notes in one place. I revised dozens of pages at the beginning to save a single character, and I stayed up all night because a single sentence in the ending didn't feel right. It wasn't something anyone asked me to do, nor was success promised. Rather, because of that, those moments could be entirely mine.

Even when the publication was decided, I couldn't be very happy. I felt like it would hurt that much more if I got my hopes up. I only looked for typos while flipping through the proofs and didn't even look at the pre-order numbers.

On the morning of the release date, a box containing the author's copies arrived. The box was filled with identical books neatly packed. I took out the one on top and stroked the cover. The copyright page had the publication date along with the name 'Lee Ye-hyun.'

That was how "The Sound of the Rainy Season" came into the world.

The book began to sell faster than expected.

At first, it made the weekly rankings of one bookstore. A few days later, its rank rose in other bookstores as well. I got a call for a second printing, and the editor laughed over the phone, calling it a bestseller. My books were stacked at the entrance of bookstores, and when I searched my name online, sentences left by readers appeared.

I thought all the time I had endured since I was twenty was finally being rewarded.

---

The Me That People Wrote

About three weeks after I heard it was a bestseller, an author posted something.

The title was in the form of a question.

"The Sound of the Rainy Season," isn't it too similar to be a coincidence?

The post featured a meticulously crafted table placing that author's previous work alongside my novel. A few sentences, similar themes, and several scenes that looked alike if you cut out the context were connected by red lines. If you read the entire plot, they were different stories. Not a single individual sentence overlapped. However, within that one elaborate table, the similarities tied with red lines caught the eye much faster than the differences revealed in the long-winded explanations.

I tried to write a clarification immediately. But the publisher told me to wait. They said that responding without a legal review could be disadvantageous, so I shouldn't say anything until an official statement was released. I believed those words implicitly. During the few hours I remained silent, the post spread to various communities, and even news articles titled "Bestseller Plagiarism Allegations Against Unknown Author" were published.

No matter how much they were wrapped in words like 'allegations' or 'controversy,' to the public, they were pieces that had a conclusion set from the start.

The clarification I wrote was twelve pages long. I organized the initial concept date, revision history by version, and research records in order. I also wrote that I had never read the other work. But people held onto my first sentence longer than the rest of the clarification.

'I understand that some elements may feel similar.'

My 12-page clarification was cut down to just evidence that I had admitted to the similarities.

The next day, my voice trembled in the clarification video I filmed. I stuttered several times in front of the camera and lowered my head while reading the prepared sentences. Even so, the people writing comments didn't see me as an innocent person who was trembling.

'She can't even make eye contact because she has a guilty conscience.'

'She has the guts to steal someone else's writing but not the guts to explain herself?'

'She can't even speak properly; did she really write it herself?'

Even words I never uttered circulated as if they were my own words. Someone I'd never met testified that I was in the same group as that author in the past, and someone else said I had been jealous of him for a long time in that group.

Looking back now, the truth was pathetic compared to the story they wanted: 'A long-failing unknown author stole someone else's work and succeeded in one go.' I wrote it for three and a half years in a room where no one was watching, and among countless coincidences, an inexplicable similarity occurred. All I had were files with dates and piles of notes.

The publisher suspended the distribution of "The Sound of the Rainy Season." They said it was a measure to protect me. Behind that was the phrase 'until the possibility of a legal dispute is confirmed.' Not long after, a notice of contract termination arrived. The reason was that the situation was dragging on, causing damage to the company and other authors.

I called the manager.

"Then what about my manuscript materials?"

The person on the other end was quiet for a moment.

"Don't you have the original files you sent, Author?"

"The revision records, the proofs, and the materials I submitted when signing the contract. They're on the server. You can even check the initial submission date."

"I'll look into that part."

That was the last conversation I had with that person.

The book went out of print. The books recalled from bookstores vanished without a trace, and when I searched my name, 'plagiarism' followed before my works. I received mocking calls from unknown numbers. There was even a day when a torn book was left in front of my door. When I lay down with the lights off, notification sounds followed like raindrops.

For a while, I didn't look at my phone. Then one day, a short email came from someone who said they used to work at the publisher.

It said that the initial drafts, proofreading history, and internal review materials received during the contract process would be stored on a separate server and in the archives. If I secured those materials, I could at least prove that I hadn't assembled the bestseller after the fact. Even if I couldn't erase all the plagiarism suspicions at once, I felt like I could at least regain the right to speak again.

I demanded the return of the materials from the publisher. I sent emails, I sent certified mail, and I waited for hours in the lobby of the headquarters. The answer I got back was the same. The relevant department is checking. There are no materials we can provide. If you continue unauthorized visits, we will take action for obstruction of business.

On the day the thirteenth email was returned, it rained.

I waited for the employees to leave and entered the publisher's building through the freight passage. It was a path I had learned back when I used to go pick up proofs. My hands kept shaking, and I wanted to turn back every time I opened a door. I felt like I would be caught immediately if an alarm went off.

The archive door was open.

Inside were only a few empty shelves and boxes waiting to be shredded. Only a worn-out classification tag remained in the slot where my book title was written. I searched for my contract number on the server management screen, but no results came up. The deletion date was the day after the contract was terminated.

I entered the same number several times. I thought I got the digits wrong. I searched by title, and by my name.

There was nothing.

The door behind me opened. The duty staff and security guards were standing there. The manager, who came down after being notified, recognized my face.

"Why did you destroy them?" I asked.

He said without coming closer, "Materials from terminated contracts have been processed according to internal regulations. Please leave immediately."

"You knew there was a dispute."

"This company is not a party to an individual author's dispute."

"If I have those materials, I can prove that I wrote—"

"I will report this to the police and the heroes."

He didn't listen to me until the end.

The hero arrived less than ten minutes after the report.

"Raise your hands so they're visible and lie face down on the floor."

I stood in front of the empty shelves and didn't move.

"This is your final warning."

"I asked them to return my materials."

"That is for the investigative agencies to decide."

"They say they don't have them."

I said, looking at the manager. "They said they destroyed everything."

The hero didn't look back at me. As his fingertips moved, an invisible force pressed down on both my shoulders. My knees hit the floor. Every time I breathed in, it felt like the inside of my ribs was being crushed. He lowered his hand once more, and the pressure intensified.

I was scared. It hurt. But there was something harder to bear than that.

It was the fact that I had to explain myself again.

That what existed, existed; that what I wrote, I wrote; that what I didn't steal, I didn't steal. The fact that I had to open my mouth again in front of questions with pre-determined answers was horrifying.

Something snapped in my head.

I looked at the hero's hand.

In that moment, I could tell. In which direction to press the force so the joints wouldn't be damaged, how to divide the pressure when subduing multiple people at once, and where to block to seal their movements without cutting off their breath.

It was a technique I had never learned. Yet, it felt as natural as if I had practiced it for years.

I lifted my finger.

The force pressing on my shoulders vanished. The same pressure slammed the hero's body into the floor. A look of panic appeared on his face for the first time.

"Was she an awakened...?"

Backup personnel rushed in. Electricity scorched my arm, and a translucent barrier blocked the exit. Every time an ability touched my body, the knowledge of how to use it flooded in. The path the current flowed, the order of layering barriers to increase strength—it was as clear as if I had known it from the beginning.

They couldn't beat me. Since I possessed even their level of skill exactly as it was.

A sentence I spent three and a half years writing was called a copy of someone else's. Yet a power I hadn't practiced even once became mine so perfectly.

A soundless laugh escaped me.

During the battle, the ceiling collapsed, blocking the employees' passage. When I heard screams, I put up a barrier first. I blocked the fragments of the shockwave and lifted the debris with pressure.

"Get out."

The employees didn't move.

"I'm not going to kill you, so get out!"

Only then did they push each other and run toward the emergency stairs. The manager didn't look back until the very end.

After everyone had left, I went back to the archives. I crushed the empty shelves where my records had been with pressure. I sent the mimicked current into the server room. The mechanical sounds stopped, and black smoke filled the air. There was nothing left to recover. Rather, because of that, I didn't want to leave even a trace.

So I destroyed that too.

The next day's headline read, 'Plagiarism-Controversy Author Attacks Publisher.' The fact that I let the people inside the building out was in a single line at the very end of the article, and there was no mention at all that I hadn't killed the heroes. The Association gave a name to the unidentified villain who reproduced others' abilities exactly.

Mimesis

It means imitation.

Since then, several villain organizations have come to find me. While saying they needed my powerful strength, they never used their abilities in front of me. The people who suggested becoming allies hid their hands behind their backs, fearing I would steal their power. Even they—the heroes and the villains standing at opposite poles—had the same look in their eyes when they saw me.

I couldn't explain anything to them either.

---

Again, the Sound of Rain

The rain was still tapping against the window.

The hand I placed on the book was in the same spot. Years had passed in my memory, but in the room, only a single raindrop had made its way to the bottom of the glass pane.

I looked down at the name written on the cover.

Lee Ye-hyun.

Nowhere beneath it was the name Mimesis written.

I didn't open the book. I didn't turn on the light.

Only the sound of rain filled the room for a long time.