Gwangjong

The rain had not stopped since morning. It fell in steady sheets over Gyeongbokgung Palace, turning the courtyards into mirrors of gray sky and trembling shadows. Water streamed from the curved eaves, dripping in rhythmic patterns that echoed through the otherwise silent grounds. King Gwangjong stood in the rain with holding the umbrella. He was waiting. No attendants stood close. No ministers dared linger. Even the guards kept their distance, as though the quiet around the king was something sacred—or dangerous.