Dawn has not yet broken the horizon.
The courtyard lies silent; the lanterns fade one by one.
Yi Sun-sin, already dressed in his armor, walks toward the gate.
His boots echo on the stone — each step measured,
as if he were already marching to war.
Behind him, his wife follows with slow, careful steps,
her mantle clutched tightly around her shoulders.
Her eyes gleam with worry, yet her bearing remains dignified.
In her arms, she holds their sleeping son,
his peaceful breath unaware of the parting to come.
She stops at a distance, her gaze fixed on her husband.
Yi turns at last — his face firm, his eyes dark.
No tenderness, no farewell.
His voice falls, dry and sharp:
— "You will report everything that happens here.
No embellishments, no complaints.
Facts. I need to know the household stands."
Silence.
His eyes remain locked on hers, unyielding.
She bows her head slightly, answering in a low, submissive voice:
— "Yes… General."
He turns away at once, raising his hand to signal the departure.
The clatter of hooves and the rumble of wheels
shatter the quiet of morning.
Little by little, the courtyard empties.
Dust rises, mingling with the chill of dawn.
The air smells of iron, stone, and distance.
She stands still, her gaze lost in the mist.
Before her, the road stretches — gray, endless —
like a vow he will never break.
The young woman holds her sleeping child to her chest, motionless.
She does not cry, but her breath falters.
Behind the lowered veil of her eyes, one thought resounds:
her husband leaves her duties to fulfill — but never a goodbye.