I woke when the sun was already high, slipping reluctantly through the narrow cracks of my window. The worry remained, pressing cold fingers against my chest. All I wanted was to return to the Cheomseongdae and bury myself in the only things I truly understood—the sky, the brush, and that ink which, only the night before, had filled me with shame.
My lady-in-waiting stood beside my bed, ready to dress me and escort me to breakfast with my father. I avoided imagining his face, the uncertainty that would inevitably linger there.
When I stepped outside my chamber, everything appeared ordinary. Servants carried on with their routines, and the scent of freshly prepared rice soup drifted across the courtyard. I found my father seated in his usual place, calmly reviewing his papers as though nothing had happened.
When he greeted me with his customary composure, I realized he did not yet grasp the fracture that had opened in our peace. Still, relief washed over me at the sight of him—whole, untouched, far removed from the horror of my nightmare.
He did not mention the teacup. Nor the soldier. I did not ask. It was easier to pretend the generals' visit had been nothing more than a formal courtesy, even though I felt my life had shifted irreversibly.
When breakfast ended, my father spoke with unusual brightness.
"You should hurry to the observatory."
I went pale.
The request rooted me in place. After everything that had happened, I had not expected him to send me there so readily. Wordlessly, with a knotted stomach and a mind clouded with confusion, I rose and made my way toward the Cheomseongdae.
Something changed within me during the walk.
I was myself again—but a version I did not recognize.
The world seemed sharpened, vivid. I found myself almost skipping along the path, light as a child running hand in hand with someone unseen. For a fleeting moment, I was that child again—carefree, present, untouched by consequence.
The air felt different. Washed. Renewed. As though the world itself had been cleansed overnight.
A strange joy took hold of me—deep and irrational, powerful enough to drown every remnant of fear. It was as if that man's presence, instead of threatening me, had lit a hidden lantern inside my chest.
I walked toward the observatory feeling invincible.
As though nothing could harm us.
When I crossed the threshold of the Cheomseongdae, my eyes fell immediately upon a thick stack of pristine seoji laid neatly upon the wooden table. The sight grounded me—but this time, the return to reality did not wound.
"Here we go again," I murmured softly, unable to suppress my smile.
I ran my fingers across the paper's smooth surface. The fear from the night before had vanished. The burden of responsibility no longer felt like chains.
I was ready.
Each observation I recorded carefully upon the hanji, studying the sago left behind by scholars who had occupied this place long before me. As the days passed, the stacks of written pages grew—and so did my hope of deciphering the secrets hidden beyond the firmament.
One warm evening, while observing the moon, Kang-dae's face crossed my mind like a fleeting meteor.
I shook my head sharply.
But his name echoed within me, traveling an immeasurable distance.
"Kang-dae," I whispered before I could stop myself.
I forced my gaze back to the moon in its silver brilliance.
That was my undoing.
His face appeared there again—etched into craters and light.
I reached toward the sky, fingers stretching foolishly as though I might brush his cheek. Instead, I touched only the warm night wind.
I was alone.
And yet, he filled everything.
One rainy morning, the sound of hooves sinking into mud snapped me to attention. From the distance came the creak of carriage wheels approaching our gates.
Then a voice announced what my heart already knew.
The subgeneral had arrived.
He had come to collect the Cheonmun-do and the completed hanji to deliver them to the King's court.
Panic and anticipation collided within my chest.
I called desperately for my momjong. I needed to change at once. I knew I was not permitted in my father's chambers during official hoeui, yet I could not remain still. Even a distant glimpse of him would be enough.
As my hanbok was adjusted, my hands trembled—not from the cold rain, but from the possibility of meeting his gaze again.
I stepped into the courtyard, lifting the hem of my skirt just enough to move through mud and puddles.
And then, I forgot myself.
I began to run beneath the rain.
Water soaked through silk and skin alike, but I did not care. Behind me, my momjong—my aemi since childhood—called out in alarm, begging me to take shelter.
I did not listen.
I only wanted to feel the freedom of the rain.
And then—
My father's voice echoed across the courtyard.
Without thinking, I ran toward him.
And there he was.
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