Night falls. In the quiet room, she sits by the window, one hand resting on her rounded belly. Their son already sleeps in the next chamber, his soft murmurs muffled by the screens. Yi Sun-sin enters, slowly removing his leather gloves, his face marked by fatigue.
She lifts her eyes to him, hesitates, then speaks softly:
— "Today, in the courtyard… I saw you smile."
He stops in his tracks. His dark gaze fixes on her, as if trying to suppress her words. His voice is cold when he finally answers:
— "You saw wrong."
She doesn't lower her eyes; instead, she smiles faintly.
— "No. When you straightened his staff. Your lips moved—just a little—but it was a smile."
A heavy silence falls. He turns away, sets his gloves down on the table. He doesn't face her when his deep voice rises again:
— "It wasn't a smile. It was… pride. But pride must not soften a child."
She rises slowly, despite the weight of her pregnancy. Her steps are cautious, but she moves toward him, her gaze holding his, braver than before.
— "Then keep your severity for the world. As for me, I will remember that smile—rare, fleeting. Because it reminds me that beneath all your austerity… there is a father. And perhaps… a man."
He stares at her for a long moment. His face remains stern, yet his eyes waver. His hand lifts, hesitates… then rests on her belly, heavy and steady, like a seal.
He says nothing.
But she understands: his silence is his confession.