The oil lamps flicker, casting shifting shadows across the screens.
After brushing his wife's cheek, Yi turns his head away—rigid, as if to smother an impulse he refuses to acknowledge.
But her hand gently closes around his wrist, keeping him from retreating.
Her voice is low, almost a whisper:
— "It isn't boldness… it's truth. I'm no longer afraid to say it."
Her eyes lift to his, shimmering with both fear and resolve. Yi closes his own; his breath grows heavier. His fingers, despite himself, trace the fragile line of her neck.
The silence thickens, heavy with a desire long restrained. With a sudden motion, he pulls her against him, as if the rock itself had begun to crack. She holds her breath… then her lips find his.
Their shadows merge with the trembling light, and the lamp dies in a whisper.
In the darkness, he does not move away. His arm still holds her, yet his unseen gaze drifts elsewhere—caught between the fear of surrendering and the pull to do so.
Nothing is spoken, nothing promised.
But in the silence, the rock has trembled.