The courtyard echoes with sharp voices.
The eldest son, eight years old, wields a wooden staff under his father's stern gaze. Yi Sun-sin corrects his posture with a brusque gesture:
— "Stand straight. A man of my house does not bend."
The boy obeys, lips tight, sweat beading on his brow from the effort. Beside him, the four-year-old totters under the weight of a staff far too heavy, but Yi does not relent.
A little farther away, the five-year-old daughter clutches her rag doll. Watching her brothers struggle through their drills, her tears spill over. Yi turns away from the boys and walks toward her. His sons hold their breath, fearing a reprimand.
But when he reaches the little girl, he kneels and opens his arms. She runs into them immediately. His face remains stern, but his broad hand rests on her hair. A brief, awkward gesture—yet enough to quiet her sobs.
His sons freeze, stunned: their father, relentless with them, demands nothing from their sister.
From the pavilion, his wife watches. A smile escapes her. She murmurs:
— "Even stone cracks beneath a child's tears…"
The day ends, the meal passes in restrained quiet, and the house finally sleeps.
Every night, in a now unchanging ritual, Yi steps into his wife's room. He never speaks—never. His movements are rough, his breath harsh, his embrace unyielding.
But since that night beneath the moon, something has shifted.
He takes her longer now, his body pressing hers as if time were slipping from him and he clung to her through strength alone. And when the act is done, he does not leave immediately. Often, he remains lying beside her, his heavy arm draped over her waist, her face resting in the hollow of his shoulder. His breathing lingers in the room for a long time, almost drowning out the silence of the night.
She keeps her eyes closed, cherishing every second. In that stubborn silence, she reads the confession he will never speak aloud.