The courtyard of the pavilion is silent.
Servants, nursemaids, children — all are waiting. In the distance, heavy footsteps echo. Then the silhouette appears: tall, imposing, armored in austerity. But his features are hollowed, his gaze darker than before.
His son, now six, runs toward him waving a wooden sword.
— "Father! Look! I never stopped training!"
Yi Sun-sin stops. His eyes scrutinize the child like a soldier under inspection. Silence. Then he nods once.
— "Your stance is straight. You have not lost your strength."
The child straightens proudly before hiding against his nurse. The little girl, three years old, lingers behind her mother's robe,
while the youngest clings to his nursemaid's hand — too young to understand.
Finally, his eyes meet those of his wife.
Two years have passed. She is thinner, yet her features have sharpened — less fragility, more quiet strength. She bows deeply.
— "My husband… you have returned alive."
He approaches. His shadow covers her.
She keeps her head lowered, her heart pounding. His voice falls, rough, brief:
— "I read your letters. They followed me on the sea."
She lifts her eyes at last. Nothing in his austere face has changed —
yet those words alone bring tears to her eyes. She wants to speak, but no sound comes.
Then, unexpectedly, his hand rises. Heavy, firm, it rests on her shoulder — a weight grounding her, saying more than his lips ever will.
— "You held your place. The children live, the house stands. You did not falter."
She smiles through her tears, answering in a breath:
— "Because I waited for your shadow, every night."
He turns his gaze away immediately, reclaiming his stone mask. But his hand remains a heartbeat too long — heavy, burning. And in that silence, she understands: After two years away, he has returned to them. To her.