The room is bathed in gentle light. On a woven mat, their infant son stirs clumsily. His small legs kick the air, his arms reach into emptiness — as if he already wished to conquer the world.
The young mother laughs softly, her eyes shining with tender pride. She stretches out her hands to encourage him. Yi Sun-sin, tall and still, stands beside her. His face remains stern, but his eyes follow every effort of the child, every uncertain movement.
For an instant, it seems that the rock softens. The baby wobbles, tries to rise, falls, and tries again with stubborn resolve. In the silence, a faint gleam crosses the father's gaze — something between pride and melancholy.
But the moment breaks. Yi straightens his shoulders, his tone sharp again.
— "Tomorrow, I leave. The king calls. It will be long."
The mother freezes, her smile fading. Her hands tighten around the child, as if to shield him from an absence he cannot yet understand.
She pleads in a trembling voice,
— "He's only a few months old…"
He gives no answer. His hard gaze is already turned away, fixed on an unseen horizon — where war awaits.
She watches him walk to the door, her hand still resting on the child's warm back. He does not look back. And in that stillness, she understands: though his heart may waver, his duty never will.
The baby stirs again, laughing in the ignorance of his father's departure.
And in that room, a crack takes root — between the life just born, and the duty that tears its father away.