The Bridge of Forgotten Steps

The wooden planks creaked beneath hundreds of feet. A sound like bones settling. Min-ho stood in the line, his left thumb rubbing his right knuckles. Back and forth. Back and forth.

The rhythm had kept him alive in Camp Five. Three years of counting. One two three four five.

Captain James Morrison looked up from his processing table. The paperwork was endless today. "Name," he said, not looking up yet.

"Kim... Min-ho." The words came out in pieces. Each syllable separate. The silence between them stretched too long.

Morrison's pen hovered over the form. He checked his watch. A nervous habit. "Rank?"

"None... now." Min-ho's head stayed bowed. His eyes fixed on something only he could see.

The Captain looked up then. Really looked. This one was different. The hollowed eyes. The way his shoulders curved inward like a bruised fruit.

"Hometown."

"Munsan." A pause. "Near the... the bridge."

Morrison's hand moved to his pocket. Extracted a cigarette pack. Automatic. "Smoke?"

Min-ho didn't reach. His thumb kept rubbing. The knuckle was raw. Red.

The Captain's gaze followed the prisoner's line of sight. South bank. Tents and temporary shelters clustered together like a refugee city. Women in white hanbok. Children running between the tents.

"Mwo-e iss-eo?" Morrison's Korean was careful. Each pronunciation deliberate. "What is there?"

Min-ho's head lifted. Slowly. As if the movement cost him something. His eyes finally met the Captain's.

"My... family." The word cracked. Split in half.

Something in that gaze caught at Morrison's chest. A memory surfaced. His brother's face. The last photograph from the Philippines. Never came home.

The Captain pulled his small notebook from his breast pocket. Flipped to a fresh page. This one would remember him carefully.

"Kimbun-giga iss-eo." The Captain spoke softly. "Families are waiting."

The wooden planks groaned beneath them. The gray water flowed endlessly below. Reflecting a sky that belonged to neither north nor south.

Min-ho took a step forward. Then another. The bridge swayed slightly under his weight.

Behind him, Morrison wrote the name in his notebook. Kim Min-ho. Teacher. Munsan. The ink dried dark on the page.

The Captain watched the figure in the worn uniform move across the wooden span. Each step careful. Deliberate. Like walking on glass.

"Come home," Morrison whispered to the empty air.

But the man on the bridge didn't hear. He was already somewhere between the past and whatever waited ahead.