The night is peaceful; no sound disturbs the estate.
Moonlight filters through the shutters, tracing pale shadows across the floor.
In his chamber, Yi sits motionless, eyes open in the dark.
After a long while, he rises, takes a lamp, and walks through the empty corridors.
His muffled steps echo like a restrained heartbeat.
He gently opens the door to his wife's room.
Inside, all is still — the cradle, the sleeping wife, the maids curled up under their blankets.
The air is thick with warmth and the faint scent of milk.
Yi approaches the cradle.
His daughter sleeps deeply, her tiny fist pressed against her cheek.
The general leans over, his hand hesitating above the child… then falling back, clenched behind his back.
Yet his eyes shine, heavy with a tenderness he cannot give.
His gaze drifts to his wife.
She sleeps soundly. Her features are thin, her closed eyes shadowed by exhaustion.
Her lips are slightly parted, her breath uneven — restless even in sleep.
Yi watches her for a long moment, silent.
His lips part, as though a word seeks to escape… but none comes.
He straightens abruptly, swallows that unspoken breath.
His face hardens again; the mask returns.
He blows out the lamp and slips back into the corridor.
The moon remains the only witness.
In the room, there is only silence — and the shadow of a man who did not know how to speak.