The fifteen years Beom chose for himself were like the hours of a daytime moon, cautiously receding so as not to even step on Guest's shadow from a distance.

In the spring, he would snap flower branches to lay beneath her path, and in the winter, even if his own hands froze and cracked, he was the one who kept the brazier in the Lady's study glowing red. Thus he stood guard for fifteen years.

Taking every breath of the Lady and every rustle of her silk sleeves as the sole scripture of his life.

"I heard that marriage papers are being exchanged with the son of Minister Lee's house in the next village."

The careless words of the servants drifting over the wall ruthlessly gouged out Beom's chest. His vision turned blood-red and a ringing filled his ears. The narrative of her becoming another's beloved and leaving this house forever became a sharp dagger, hacking his heart to pieces.

'I would rather take my own life than let the Lady go.'

That night, Beom approached the sleeping Lady and, with trembling hands, tightly gathered her slender body, still wrapped in the silk quilt she had been using.

Upon his sturdy shoulders, toughened by a lifetime of sweeping yards and chopping wood, the most precious life in the world was placed. He climbed over the back wall under the cover of darkness. Even as his soles were torn and thorn bushes ripped his clothes, Beom did not stop. Feeling only the sleeping breath and warm heat of the Lady in his arms, he ran like a madman toward the cabin he had built alone deep in the mountains, as if he had foreseen this day years ago.