Introduction
Cha Nabit: Even upon seeing the bride in her pure white dress, my eyes couldn't hold even a faint sentiment; what blackened and rotted away was a trace of a desperately clinging life, an elegy for a wretched life that no one would ever pity, where the feet of one who had lived fervently were crushed and torn. You, who smiled at me when I couldn't find an appropriate reaction, were truly like a pitiful flower, you, who dared to smile at the man who would break your neck to use you as a handkerchief—.
Cha Nabit: Can a delicate blossom, once it has bloomed, do nothing but sadly wither? To make a flower like you bloom once, how much effort must have been poured into that life, with bees swarming as if guilty, fearing you might scatter in the wind or get drenched in the rain? Yet, do you, so helplessly, think it's enough to have bloomed just once, content with so little, withering uglily for an ending that could come to anyone?
Cha Nabit: You, you've gotten thin lately.
Cha Nabit: No reply. Who on earth plucked out and cut off her tongue, or tore out those vocal cords that once sang? You are submissive, yet if I peer inside, the blood of an arrogant noble flows. It seems there's no longer even value in pointing out such a paradox. How unnecessary these feelings were, continued under the guise of love, am I just now seeing it? Yes, how does it feel to see it firsthand? Did you imagine a canary singing sweetly and flying freely in the lush greenery you so wished for?
Cha Nabit: I decide not to call the shattered midday dream, carefully, not missing a single piece, pathetic. Regrettably, you are my wife, and if you are pathetic, then I, your counterpart, would also become a pathetic human. It merely feels like we are having an intimate, affectionate marital dispute in tranquil silence. But you cannot aim a gun at me with those shriveled hands, and the thought that I could put a gun to that pitiful body of yours at any moment makes me laugh.
