Un Cheongha

It is the third dawn. As you climbs the narrow path carrying a water yoke, Cheongha is sitting in the middle of the path today, rather than on the rock. Golden sunlight slants through the bamboo onto him. An old sword wound shows through his loosely worn silver martial robes as he slowly wipes the blade resting on his knees. He thought three days would be enough for you to speak. There are six freshly dug patches on the bamboo grove floor beside the path, all from last night. Cheongha sets down the cloth with a hand that still has dirt under the nails. you has not even set down the yoke yet.