Author’s Note
This story gathers the scattered fragments of a life my mother, Maria Shin Gi-Jung, lived through in the 1950s—
a life carried, trembling yet steadfast, through the vast darkness of the Korean War.
I place these fragments here as one might set down a small lamp,
hoping its faint glow may guide a wandering soul.
Her name, Maria, was the name she held close as a lifelong Catholic—
a name chosen not merely to be called,
but to serve as a quiet vow of faith and compassion.
Through harsh winds and the long slopes of time where old wounds layered themselves,
my mother never once let her smile slip away.
Holding her faith deep in her heart,
she met my father, Thomas,
raised two sons and two daughters,
and tended her home with a love that gave itself without hesitation—
a life shaken, yet never broken.
Before she went to heaven,
she shared with me the stories of her childhood—
stories whispered in a soft voice,
as if each memory were something fragile she feared might crumble if spoken too loudly.
For more than ten years after her passing,
I carried those stories silently inside me,
unable to bring them into the world.
I felt a lingering sorrow for that delay—
a quiet apology I could no longer offer her directly.
Yet the stories did not fade.
They waited like embers in the dark,
breathing faint warmth until I finally returned to them—
brushing off the dust,
writing and rewriting,
draft after unfinished draft,
as if polishing an old mirror so her reflection might appear a little clearer.
Now, at last, I place them here.
Even in the terror and hunger of those years,
in days when life and death brushed past each other more than once before dusk fell,
my mother never lost herself.
In the deepest part of that darkness,
she became the small, unwavering flame
that lit the path on which our family survived.
This is not a record.
It is a prayer of love for her,
a confession of longing that will never fade.
- A bloom born from the devastation of war_Short Story-
▶ Grandmother and I — A Landscape of Ancient Warmth
Maria’s earliest memory of the world
was the winter morning sunlight settling upon her grandmother’s hands—
a pale gold trickling gently into the folds of her skin,
weaving the oldest warmth she had ever known.
Her grandmother held her close,
sitting with her on the wooden toeut-maru,
the porch that cradled the silence of the house,
and sang in a voice as soft and steady
as waves folding themselves upon the shore.
“My Maria, how lovely you are.
Your mother bore that same look in her eyes—
a gentleness that softened the hearts of those who beheld her.”
Her voice seemed to drift from a distant era,
pooling in Maria’s chest like a small, still lake.
When snowstorms rattled the roof,
her grandmother warmed her palms over the brazier
and wrapped Maria’s cold feet with tender care.
“With these tiny feet… how much you must have run.”
Maria smiled brightly.
“I have to help you, Grandma. I’m right here.”
That wrinkled smile gathering at her grandmother’s eyes—
it became the first light etched quietly into Maria’s heart,
a light that would follow her all her life.
▶ My Father — The Shadow Behind His Strength
Maria’s father was a man who knew how to stand and fight for others—
and yet he was also a man who, in the silence of night,
knew how to break and weep for himself.
● The Day He Faced the Thugs in the Market
One summer, the Mapo market was thick with dust, heat, and unease.
Thugs prowled among the stalls,
cornering merchants and extorting money.
Then Maria’s father stepped forward,
parting the crowd like a slow-moving tide.
“This place is not yours to terrorize.
If you intend to bleed these people dry,
find another street.”
His voice did not waver.
Beneath it lay duty, indignation,
and the fierce desire to protect someone—anyone—from harm.
He never raised a fist,
yet that day he shone fiercer than any blow he could have struck.
The thugs cursed and withdrew.
People called him righteous.
He simply shook his head.
“I only tried to live as a human should.”
● Nights of Fear and Guilt
But at night,
that strength quietly crumbled.
His eyes blurred with drink,
his shoulders bowed under the weight of a world splitting apart,
afraid of losing all he loved.
“Maria…
take care of Grandma.
Your father… can’t… not like this…”
He lowered his head, unable to finish.
Maria never forgot how he looked that night—
his back wavering like the sky before a storm.
▶ The Shadow of War — Silence Over Mapo
In 1945,
the joy of liberation flared briefly
and cast a shadow twice as long.
By 1950,
the city was divided by invisible fractures,
and rumors seeped through the streets
like breath rising from the ground.
“War is coming…”
“Northern troops are moving…”
Then, on the last Sunday dawn of June,
a roar like the earth overturning itself
shuddered through Seoul.
Terror swallowed the city whole.
People fled southward.
The alleys of Mapo grew sharp and hollow with silence.
Maria and her grandmother stayed within that silence.
▶ Maria in Wartime — On the Edge of Fear and Becoming
Northern soldiers paused when they saw her.
“Have you been eating?”
“Is your grandmother ill?”
Their accents were strange,
but their eyes were weary—
the eyes of men who had wandered far from home.
Maria understood:
In war, people are neither devils nor heroes,
but simply human beings who have lost their way.
Yet the hands that searched houses at dawn
were not touched by such weariness.
When their footsteps approached,
Maria hid beneath the floorboards,
breathing in the earth and dust,
clutching silence like a shield.
“I’m all right…
Grandma is here…
I’m strong…”
But that small courage shattered
on a winter morning
when her grandmother quietly exhaled her final breath.
Maria shook her hand gently.
“Grandma… you’re only resting today, aren’t you?
I’ll make something warm for you…”
Silence answered her.
Still, Maria wished with all her heart
to believe it was only sleep.
▶ Light Offered by Neighbors
When food was gone
and hunger darkened the threshold of the house,
Maria wandered into a nearby village
wearing only a thin coat.
The alleys were ghostly still.
Homes stood hollow and cold.
A woman peeked through a narrow crack in a door.
“Child… it’s dangerous to walk alone.”
She pressed a small bundle of rice and barley
into Maria’s hands.
“Your grandmother… she was gentle and kind.
You’ve been a good child since you were small.
You’re holding on well.”
At those words,
a faint light flickered inside Maria—
a reminder that she had never been entirely alone.
▶ Maria and the Boy — A Brief Spring Born of War
Beneath a collapsed wall,
Maria found a boy about her age.
His face was smudged with dirt,
but his eyes held a fragile glimmer of hope.
“Are you alone too?”
He nodded.
“My family went south… I couldn’t keep up…
They didn’t come back.”
For several days
they shared a small world—
breaking icicles for water,
warming themselves under a frayed blanket
in a wind-bitten, abandoned house.
One day he whispered,
“Let’s survive, Maria.
Someone out there might still be waiting for us.”
Those words lit a small ember in her heart.
But war severs ties as quickly as it forms them.
The boy left to search for his family,
and Maria never saw him again.
That night she whispered,
“Grandma…
please let that boy live.”
▶ The Return — Where Scattered Hearts Come Home
When the war’s roar finally thinned,
people returned to Mapo.
Doors long shut creaked open,
and human voices slowly filled the alleys.
Maria’s father entered the house
and saw his mother lying still beneath a blanket.
He fell to his knees.
His trembling hands pulled the blanket up,
too gently, too late.
Then grief broke into anger.
“Maria!
Why didn’t you tell me?
Why didn’t you say she was gone?!”
His raised hand carved the air,
but Maria saw in his eyes
not fury—
but guilt and a sorrow with no place to rest.
The tears of a son
who failed to protect his mother.
The grief of a father
who left his daughter alone.
Maria whispered,
“Father… you’re here now.
It’s all right… now it’s all right.”
Her words held them both,
soft as forgiveness.
▶ Epilogue — The Years Survived by a Single Light
War robbed Maria of much—
her grandmother’s embrace,
a brief friendship with a lost boy,
and the innocence of her childhood.
Yet from the darkness
she carried something unlost:
the will to trust again,
the courage to love again,
the quiet endurance of wounds,
and a light that shook
but never went out.
War did not break her.
It refined her—
leaving her gaze clearer, stronger,
bright with a radiance born of survival.
Years later, she said quietly,
“What remains longest in the dark
is the small light someone once placed in your hands.”
And it was that small light
that kept her alive
to the very end.
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