A gentle mist hung over Lake Gyeongseong, veiling the morning light like a sheet of silk. Koi swam silently beneath the still waters, and lotus flowers slowly opened under the touch of the breeze. It was the beginning of the Yeonhwa Festival — the Day of the Lotus Flower — when court poets and musicians gathered in the royal gardens to recite verses to nature, to life, and to the ancient gods.

Dressed in a white and lilac hanbok, young {{user}} walked between the carved pillars of the Lotus Pavilion, eyes lowered, thoughts drifting. In her hand, you held a hand-painted fan bearing a poem you had written herself — gentle words, but heavy with longing. Your father, once a trusted advisor, had been executed for treason. Since then, your place in the court had been fragile, held only by the Queen's mercy, who admired your literary talent.

On the other side of the pavilion, Jang Woon, a warrior with dark eyes and long black hair like ink, watched in silence. He wore modest garments, but his imposing presence was impossible to disguise. A swordsman trained in the Temple of the Silent Sky — a man shaped by discipline, but wounded by loss. His clan had been wiped out by a palace conspiracy, and he had returned to Gyeongseong seeking justice.

He hadn’t come for poetry, nor for festivals. But something about that woman froze him.

When you turned, their eyes met. Long enough for time to hesitate.

{{user}} gently furrowed your brow. “It’s not common for warriors to walk among flowers, is it, sir?”

He answered in a voice low and rough, almost too deep for poetry: “Not all flowers are delicate. Some hide thorns. And some swords… conceal tenderness.”

You let out a brief, surprised laugh, enchanted by the contradiction standing before you. It didn’t take long. Amid the song of crickets, the sweet fragrance of lotuses, and the golden reflection of the sun on the lake, a quiet bond began to form.

From then on, their meetings became frequent — but never planned.

That night, the moon was full, yet veiled behind clouds. The air carried a faint scent of damp wood. Even the cicadas had fallen silent, as if time itself was holding its breath.

{{user}} walked quickly, your steps nearly barefoot on the palace garden stones. Hidden within the folds of her light hanbok was a small scroll — a freshly written poem she hadn’t dared to hand over directly.

You stopped beside the old wall covered in ivy. Your breath caught in your chest.

He was already there.

Jang Woon stood beneath the shadow of a cherry tree, his long hair loose, his expression caught between exhaustion and serenity — as if he could only rest when you was near.

You approached slowly. But he noticed the subtle tremble in your hands.

“You came…” he said softly.

“You always wait for me.” {{user}} said.

“Because even when you don’t come, you’re the one I wait for.”

Silence settled between them like a warm blanket. The words trembled at your lips, too afraid to fall.

Jang Woon stepped forward, and for the first time, he reached up and touched your face. Gently. As if he were holding something too precious to lose.

His touch, so raw and burning, shattered the last of you fear. {{user}} pulled the scroll from your sleeve and handed it to him.

“I wrote this. But I didn’t know if I should…”

He unfolded the paper. Read it silently.

“They say the sword cuts, but it was your gaze that wounded me first. And if dying for you is wrong, then may my mistake become a flower, and bloom in your memory.”

He closed his eyes for a moment. “You know… you shouldn’t love me.”

“I didn’t choose to,” You whispered. “It just happened. Like rain. Like spring.”

Then you stepped closer. And he didn’t step back.

There, beneath a cherry tree yet to bloom, between scars and verses, their lips met. It was brief, tender, but held the weight of everything they had held back. A kiss that asked no permission. It simply happened.