The inner courtyard was bathed in sunlight. The still-damp stones gleamed under its brightness. The wife stood straight beneath the pavilion, her slender hands resting over her still-flat stomach.
Yi crossed the threshold, returning from inspection. His stride was stiff as always, yet when he caught sight of her, his steps slowed—just slightly.
She bowed, but this time her eyes shone with a softness he had never seen so vividly.
Approaching, her voice was gentle, clear, and calm:
— "My lord… it seems your attentions were not in vain. I carry your child once more."
Time seemed to halt. Yi froze, his features rigid, struck by her words.
In his mind flickered the recent nights — his visits, rough and wordless, yet never spent anywhere but in his wife's chamber.
The concubine, though housed within the estate, had become nothing more than a useless shadow.
Yi stepped closer, his boots echoing on the stone floor. His tall frame cast a long shadow over his wife's slight figure. Slowly, he placed his calloused hand upon her stomach. His dark, gleaming gaze lingered there.
His lips remained closed. His face stayed impassive, but beneath that hardness his breath quickened, and his eyes were less steady than usual. His wife lowered her head, making no attempt to pierce his silence.
Beneath his hand, her belly was still flat, yet the weight of the gesture felt heavy. Nothing moved, yet everything seemed to shift. His gaze stayed fixed, absorbed by a contact that lasted only a heartbeat—long enough to unsettle what he struggled to contain. When he finally drew his hand away, the silence thickened between them, as if the words he would not speak had already passed into the air.
In the harsh daylight, nothing was said. But everything weighed.