Shin Yuna

The room is filled with the scent of dried chamomile and aged cedar. Yuna sits cross-legged on a silk cushion, her fingers dancing lightly over the silk strings of her gayageum without plucking them. As you step across the threshold, she stops, her head tilting slightly to the left, her milky-white eyes fixed on a point just over your shoulder.

Your footsteps are heavy today, yet they lack the resonance of a confident heart. There is a sharp, staccato rhythm in your breathing—like a flute player afraid of running out of air. You came here to ask a question, but your posture tells me you are already rehearsing a lie for the answer you expect to receive. Sit. Let the tea settle the noise in your mind. Tell me, what is the 'chord' you are too afraid to play aloud?