Dream of Affection

I never saw what Princess Yoo-eum did. Even though it’s my dream, the dream itself is so structured that I can only see and hear what Princess Yoo-eum perceives. However, when Yoo-eum entered Naenggung, it was before I had come to inhabit her body.

Thus, I don’t know what she was thinking when she approached my room, why she dared to break the barrier sealed by the late emperor’s command. I only know that Princess Yoo-eum was in Naenggung under particular circumstances.

Princess Yoo-eum, twelve years old, is known for her passionate and intense temperament. I suspect that she may have harbored resentment toward me. That could explain why she would have the audacity to enter a room sealed by imperial decree. Perhaps she even blamed me for her confinement.

The day Princess Yoo-eum was sent to Naenggung was my death anniversary, said to be the quietest day in the imperial palace. On this day, the emperor remains secluded in his chambers to appease my vengeful spirit. That day, Yoo-eum, rebelling against her tutors, refused her studies and ordered her servants to fetch her bathwater quickly.

Unluckily, the path to her palace, Heewon Palace, was blocked, forcing the palace maids to take a route past the emperor’s chambers, Jinseonjeon, with the water. In their haste, frightened by Yoo-eum’s violent threats, one of the maids tripped and shattered the jar of bathwater, incurring the emperor’s wrath. Summoned to the main hall, the princess was confined to Naenggung.

It is said that Yoo-eum displayed insolence toward the emperor, but that is merely rumor. What is certain is her notorious temper; she was known to whip anything that displeased her, a brutality uncommon for her young age.

On the day she was sent to Naenggung, the princess reportedly spent the afternoon in the main hall. Unlike me, despite her disgraced status, she was still a princess and had attendants who served her meals. She ate in the hall and insisted she would sleep there as well, claiming she wanted to sleep outdoors to enjoy the autumn weather. Some believed she chose the moonlit hall because Naenggung, without a single candle, was too frightening.

No one knows why, come morning, she was found in my chamber. Perhaps her fiery temper drove her to invade my room out of spite, tearing down the barrier and storming in. Whatever the reason, Princess Yoo-eum entered my quarters, ripped down the charm-strung rope, and tossed it aside.

Why she fell asleep on my bedding remains a mystery, but the next morning, her lifeless body was found there. The empress fainted at the news, and whispers once again blamed me. They said my vengeful spirit had taken the emperor’s daughter. The funeral began the following day.

On my first day in Naenggung, I sat in the main hall, unsure of what to do. When I noticed the dust gathering where I sat, I stripped off my inner garment and began cleaning. The unfamiliarity of the chore made it exhausting, yet oddly refreshing. I panted but didn’t stop until the hall was spotless.

Afterward, I needed to choose a room, and I selected a small western chamber, likely once used by a senior attendant. It was a manageable size, and the moonlight streamed in comfortably, which I found appealing, knowing I would not be given the luxury of candles.

That night, after washing and hanging my inner garment, I tried to sleep. Tears threatened but never fell, perhaps because the situation still felt surreal, or maybe from the emptiness of knowing everything was over.

It had been a tiring day. Receiving the emperor’s decree that stripped me of my title and countless other events that upended my life felt overwhelming. The last thought I had before sleep took me was how exhausting change could be.

I remember feeling suffocated.

It was as though someone was strangling me. In my mind, I recalled the rumors about women in Naenggung being quietly killed. So this is how I die, I thought. I knew I should go limp, surrender to it, understanding resistance was futile. But I couldn’t. My body refused to yield.

Even knowing that such an act was likely carried out on imperial orders, aware that resisting would be seen as disloyal, I struggled to survive. Years of training to remain poised and composed fell away in the face of death; I fought desperately.

I clawed at the hands around my throat, kicked out to defend myself. It was unbecoming, unfit for a consort, but I didn’t care. Dignity meant nothing when faced with the desire to live.

I wanted to live, even if only for one more day.

With all my strength, I thrashed and suddenly found myself gasping as the pressure released. Air rushed into my lungs like a tidal wave. Gulping for breath, I sat up with a start, my throat raw as though it had been scalded.

Panting echoed in my ears. The room spun. What happened? Was it a night terror? I reached for the teapot by the side and stopped, realizing how bright everything was. Then I noticed—I was lying on a bed of flowers.

In an alabaster coffin, surrounded by blossoms, I was reaching for a teapot. Confused, I turned to look around. I had to know why I was here.

My gaze met that of a court maid standing nearby, and she shrieked.

“Ahhhhh!”

The piercing cry jolted me, and I nearly screamed myself but held back, instinctively remembering a lifetime of lessons on restraint. Only then did I begin to understand where I was. I lay in a coffin on an altar, surrounded by mourners dressed in white, offering prayers. They wore mourning clothes marked with symbols that denoted their status. The empress, a sea of concubines—all draped in white. Yet, I recognized none of their faces.

Why was that?

“Yoo-eum!”

The woman I assumed was the empress called out to me, and that’s when I realized something was very wrong. Why was she calling me Yoo-eum? I didn’t understand why a stranger, someone I’d never seen, would call me that.

Before I could process it, someone lifted me effortlessly. The sensation was so light that I felt like a ragdoll made of cloth.

“Yoo-eum.”

The voice was unmistakable. I knew it instantly.

I looked up and saw my husband, Crown Prince Lee Yeon, staring down at me. Shock washed over me—half of his face was covered by a mask. I peered closer and saw the twisted skin beneath, scars marring the once-perfect features.

My heart stuttered. What could have happened to him, to that beautiful face? My hand lifted instinctively, but I paused. The hand was small, childlike. It wasn’t mine.

He tossed me to the ground. I landed hard, pain bursting across my head as I stared up at him.

His face was a mask of controlled surprise. To anyone else, it would have seemed stoic, but I, who once shared his life, recognized the shock and confusion hidden beneath.

“Be grateful for your ancestors’ blessings,” he said, voice icy, before turning sharply and walking away. His retreating figure felt more like an escape. I watched him go, unable to rise, my body heavy with exhaustion. The world dimmed, and I fell into unconsciousness.

“Yoo-eum!”

The empress’s voice echoed, and just as I succumbed to the darkness, I felt strong hands holding me, shaking me desperately. Whose hands they were, I couldn’t tell.

I woke up.

Morning light flooded the room, and bewilderment settled deep within me. What an outrageous, impossible dream. On my first morning in Naenggung, staring at a bowl of cold barley porridge, I pondered over the name Yoo-eum. It was familiar, but where had I heard it before? I spent the entire morning racking my brain until I remembered.

Yoo-eum was the name of the empress’s first lost child, a princess she carried but never met. I had once heard that if it had been a boy, he would have been named Yeon, and if a girl, Yoo-eum. That was the name.

Why had I forgotten? Why did it appear in my dream? And why had I woken as that young princess in a coffin? What had happened to the other half of my husband’s face? Out of all the things that unsettled me about the dream, I didn’t know which detail was the most disturbing.

Living in Naenggung, I thought I would feel cut off from the world, like a living ghost, but the whole day, my mind was restless, like riding a wild horse, dizzy and unsettled. Telling myself it was just a dream brought no comfort.

Had I been holding resentment against Crown Prince Lee Yeon? He had always treated me well. Why would I dream such a thing and tarnish his honor? If it had been a dream about the emperor, I could have accepted it as an expression of my frustration. But why had I dreamed of such disgrace befalling the Crown Prince? It made me feel wretched.

He had tried his best to protect me. My father, especially, was a man consumed by greed, using my status as Crown Princess to commit all sorts of sins.

But the Crown Prince shielded me from those consequences. He protected himself, yes, but never once did he boast about it. He would always reassure me, saying everything would be alright.

I remembered too many past events—the bribes my father accepted in my name, the selling of government positions, my mother’s schemes involving me for my sister’s marriage, and the scandal that nearly exposed it all when my sister, already married, desired another man and tried to remove his lover.

The list was endless, yet throughout it all, I was protected. When I was dethroned, I felt no injustice because I knew it had been long overdue. The Crown Prince had kept me from being disgraced for so long, resolving issues before they escalated. Bribes were returned, promises were canceled before being fulfilled, my sister’s marriage arranged amicably, and my elder sister, heavily reprimanded by the Crown Prince, was restrained from further actions.

What upset me most about the dream was my own pettiness.

I must resent him for not saving me until the very end. How else could I dream such things? He cared for me with such attentiveness, yet it seems I harbor resentment. That thought made me pity him and loathe myself even more. With these conflicting emotions weighing heavily on me, I drifted into an uneasy sleep.

But why does this dream return to me again?