The room remains dim, heavy with silence and the scent of medicine. Bowls of herbs simmer softly, incense trying in vain to cover the lingering smell of blood. On the bed, the wife lies pale as wax, her lips barely moving with a breath so faint it seems ready to fade.
Each day, Yi Sun-sin steps through the threshold. He never entrusts this watch to servants or physicians. The same ritual repeats: he sits beside the bed, straight-backed, eyes fixed on her. Not a word more than necessary. But he stays.
At times, he dips his rough fingers into a cloth soaked in warm water and lays it on her burning forehead. His gestures are firm, almost clumsy, yet steady — like a maneuver he performs with soldierly precision, never faltering.
The first time she opens her eyes for longer, she whispers faintly,
— "You're… still here?"
Yi answers curtly, his voice roughened with fatigue,
— "Of course. If I left, you'd find a way to disobey."
A fragile smile touches her lips, soon erased by exhaustion.
— "You never watched over me before…"
He turns his gaze away, eyes on the window. His voice falls, low and grave,
— "Before, death was never this close."
Silence stretches between them. Yet his hand remains on hers — heavy, warm, unyielding. Each time she drifts into feverish sleep, she wakes again to that same steady touch, like an anchor holding her to the living world.
Even the servants whisper among themselves: the general, usually so unbending, has left the chamber only to issue essential orders.
The war itself seems forgotten — replaced by another battle: keeping the mother of his children alive.