In the heart of the night, the house sleeps. Yi walks down the corridor, a lamp in hand. His steps are heavy yet measured, as if he feared to awaken even the walls themselves.
He stops before his wife's chamber. The flicker of the lamp trembles against the wood. Slowly, he slides the door open.
Inside, all breathes silence. His wife sleeps deeply, her features still marked by fatigue yet softened in rest. The baby slumbers beside her, her gentle breathing filling the air.
Yi steps inside, advancing a few paces. His shadow falls over them—massive, oppressive. He stands there, caught between duty and emotion, his lips pressed tight.
After a long silence, he murmurs to himself, his voice low and rough:
— "Three times death brushed against you, ready to claim you… and still you remain. Stronger than I."
His fingers tighten around the handle of the lamp. For a moment, he reaches out, hesitating to touch her skin—but withdraws abruptly. A brief breath escapes him, almost a growl.
Then he steps back. The door closes without a sound.
In the corridor, the light of his lamp recedes—fragile, flickering—like a distant star that refuses ever to draw near.