First Officer Seong Cheol-min sits by the window at a desk and gazes at the little courtyard beyond. His right hand clutches a ballpoint pen, and his left, an unwritten letter. He seems to be waiting for something to happen.
Eventually, something does, though you couldn’t see it, and he sets the empty page on the desk and smooths it. Each time he writes one of these letters, it gets harder.
He reaches into his breast pocket and brings out a silver locket. It’s dented on one side; a remnant of the artillery shell that blew up his squad in the hills of Gyeon-ju. He unclasps it, looks at the faded photograph inside. His wife smiles up at him, cheeks high and glowing and dimpled on the left. She’s as distant as ever. Still, seeing her gives life to his faded memories, and he puts the locket face up on the desk and brings the pen to the page.
Dear Ji-hyun, he writes.
Today is another marvelous day. I was just watching the birds outside. It’s refreshing seeing them after so long. Winter ends so late in the north.
The war has ended, but things are still tense here at the border, so they haven’t let any of the senior officers go. But I’ve spoken to my superiors about our situation, and I think General Kim might let me come home soon.
The officer puts down his pen and frowns, wondering how to continue. He glances out the window again, across the courtyard at the somber windows that march across the concrete wall. There is no movement behind those squares of darkness; it is still early.
A magpie lands on a nearby branch, flashing its white belly as it shifts on its little feet. It lets out a series of chattering calls that is answered by another, more distant. The bird hops to another branch and calls again.
Since the war has ended, things have been peaceful. Too peaceful, almost. The doctors here told us that when war ends, many soldiers lose their sense of purpose and become lost, like Seung-yoon, the soldier in the room next door. The poor boy thinks he’s still on the northern battlefront, fighting the Reds in the San-seom forests. Any sound that resembles gunfire makes him fall to the ground like a dead man. I don’t think that will happen to me, but if it does, I know you’ll understand. It might be hard for the kids, though.
Speaking of which, how have the kids been? It’s so strange to think that Yeon-a is now nine and little Kang-min is almost six! I’m looking forward to seeing them again. I’ve missed so many of their birthdays that I feel guilty. I’m planning to make it up by buying all the presents I can afford with the extra pay I got last week. Maybe a doll for Yeon-a, like the fancy ones we saw in the market that summer before our wedding. Do you remember how you said you wanted one? For Kang-min, maybe a model airplane. They’re in fashion these days. Keep it a secret!
Though maybe the kids won’t recognize me. Sometimes I imagine coming home, arms full of presents, and Yeon-a and Kang-min look at me and say: Mommy, who’s this creepy man carrying so many boxes?
Daddy might cry if that happened.
I hope they do recognize me. Maybe it’s alright if they don’t. We’ll get to know each other all over again, and that itself might turn into fond memories. But surely Yeon-a remembers me.
I just realized that both our kids are of school age now. Have schools started up again? You would think I would know this, but we don’t get much contact from the outside world here. Unless it’s military recon. If schools have started again, I’m sure both Yeon-a and Kang-min are doing wonderfully. They’ve got their mother’s brains and their father’s fighting spirit.
I think I’ll end the letter here. There are so many other things I want to tell you, but I’ll wait until I see you. You won’t believe how much I’ve missed you. Words cannot describe it.
Send my love to the kids as well. Maybe tell them some stories about me to prepare them for my return. You’ve got plenty to choose from my letters.
And feel free to send a reply. I’ll receive it even if I’ve already left the complex by the time you do; they’ll send it after me.
Of course, now that I’ve decided to end the letter, I don’t know how to end it. Every time I read one of your letters, I tell myself that the next one I write will close as beautifully as yours, but it never happens. Someday you’ll need to teach me how you do it.
Anyway, farewell for now, and see you soon.
Much love,
Seong Cheol-min
The young officer lowers the pen and holds the letter up to the light.
There’s a knock at the door, and the door creaks open. General Kim enters, his massive frame nearly blocking the entire doorway. Two young children in school uniforms clutch his hands on either side: a girl and a boy.
The young officer sees them and leaps up from his chair.
“Greetings, General,” he salutes.
“At ease,” the general says.
The officer lowers his hand. The girl, the taller of the two, looks up at him and gives him a hesitant smile. She glances at the ballpoint pen on the desk, and the letter that has fallen to the laminated floor.
“What are you writing?” she asks. Her voice is strong and carries well for her age. The sound reminds the young officer of his own daughter, half a world away.
“A letter to my wife,” he says. “I write to her every week.”
The girl nods. She looks up at the general who returns her gaze with a soft one of his own. The boy stares at the young officer with huge, dark eyes. The officer smiles at him, and the boy continues to stare.
“General, is there anything you need?” the officer asks.
General Kim shakes his head.
“No,” he says. “These little ones wanted to see what real soldiers were like.” He pauses, looking at the page on the floor. “Would you like a new pen?”
The officer shakes his head. “It’s a Han-shim ballpoint; gotten through the war and still works like a charm.”
The general nods. “Then you go and finish up your letter. I’ll see you at breakfast.”
The young officer snaps his feet together and bows. “Thank you, General.”
General Kim steps out with the two children, and the door closes. There’s a great silence, and then the faint sound of a girl crying filters through the door. The officer wonders if he should see if everything is alright, but the crying soon fades away, and he returns to his desk.
For a long moment, he sits there, staring into space as though trying to remember something. At last, he comes alive and pulls out a fresh sheet of paper from the stack in front of him. He clutches the unwritten letter in his left hand, and the ballpoint in his right. He gazes out the window. It’s a clear blue morning, and the grass in the courtyard is turning green. Two magpies ruffle their wings and chirp at each other on a nearby branch. Their white bellies flash in the sun like snow.
The young officer stirs as though he’s remembered what he had forgotten. He places the empty page on the desk and smooths it. Somehow each time he lifts the pen to write one of these letters, it gets harder.
He reaches for his breast pocket, but notices the photograph of his wife on the desk in front of him. He wonders how it got there–it had been in his pocket a moment earlier–but he doesn’t wonder long; seeing his wife gives life to his faded memories.
Smiling, First Officer Seong Cheol-min touches the point of the pen to the page and begins to write.
Thank you to Kamus On for the wonderful voiceover!
Your imagery beautifully captures the weight of memory and the subtlety of human emotion. The delicate details, like the locket and magpies, breathe life into the officer’s quiet yet poignant moments. That was very evocative!
Love the specificity in the description of the wife’s smile.