To my husband,
The pavilion lies silent in your absence.
Our children grow: your son trains every day with his wooden sword, and your daughter laughs when I speak your name. The newborn sleeps peacefully, yet his hands already clench, as if grasping for a weapon.
I watch over them, as you commanded.
But each evening, when the wind fills the courtyard, I think of you.
You once told me I must never falter. I do not.
Yet there are nights when I only wish to feel your shadow pass through the doorway, to know that you still draw breath.
If my words are too bold, forgive them.
They are not those of a mistress of the house, but the trembling heart of a wife.
Come back alive. That is all I ask.
Your wife.
In his tent, the oil lamp flickers under the sea wind. Yi Sun-sin unrolls the paper, his stern eyes moving over the lines. His lips stay tight; not a muscle in his face stirs.
But when he reaches the words "I only wish to feel your shadow pass through the doorway," his breath halts for a moment. The hand holding the letter trembles almost imperceptibly.
He sets the paper down and closes his eyes. The crash of the waves brings back the screams of battle — yet in that silence, it is his wife's voice he hears.
He murmurs, low, for himself alone, deep and hoarse:
— "You are braver than I. You dare to write what I have never said."
He folds the letter carefully and slips it inside his breastplate, close to his heart.
Then he rises, takes up his sword. His face turns back to stone.
But from that day on, every strike he delivers upon the sea bears a new weight: not only the duty to return for his king — but to return alive, for her.
To my wife,
Your words have reached me.
I read that our children are in good health, and I am glad.
See that my son holds his wooden sword straight, that my daughter learns early to carry herself with dignity. The newborn heir must be protected above all else.
You write that you do not falter. Good.
A general's wife must never bend, no matter the sea winds or the rumors of war. Continue thus.
Do not waste your nights waiting for my shadow.
General Yi belongs first to the King and to Joseon.
But know this: if I should fall, it will not be fear of death that accompanies me — but the memory of your words.
Yi Sun-sin.
Far away, in the quiet courtyard, the wife unrolls the letter.
The servants lower their eyes, frightened by the severity of the tone.
But she, upon reading the final line — "Not the fear of death, but the memory of your words" — feels her tears fall.
It is the only confession he will ever give her, and to her, it is worth more than a thousand vows.
To my husband,
The days grow longer, and the summer wind fills the pavilion.
Your son trains each morning; your daughter laughs at his stumbles; your youngest falls asleep to the servants' flutes. Their strength reminds me of yours.
I keep watch. My strength slowly returns with the passing months, though the nights feel empty without the sound of your steps in the courtyard.
You ordered me not to wait for your shadow.
But sometimes, as I look at the moon, I whisper your name.
So I have written it here, in simple letters, just as I say it in silence:
이순신 (Yi Sun-sin).
Forgive my boldness. It was not the hand of a noblewoman, but the heart of a wife that traced these syllables.
Your wife.
In his cabin, he reads the letter under the trembling glow of the lamp. His severe eyes pass over the lines with no visible emotion. Then he stops.
There, in the middle of the solemn text — the word written in Hangul: 이순신.
His own name, written not in the learned scholars' characters, but in the soft script of women — the language of the heart.
He freezes. His fingers trace the rounded strokes of the word. A long breath escapes his lips.
— "Foolish woman… you dare write my name as if it were yours."
He folds the letter, but does not place it with the military reports. He keeps it on him, close to his chest — where he had kept the first one.
And that night, while gazing at the moon, he whispers her name for the first time — alone, in the dark.