“The Word That Walked Toward Him”
He held a rifle.
A box of live rounds sat beside him.
He lied surrounded, silent.
I walked toward him—unarmed.
Toward his trigger,
hoping it would not turn toward me.
“Private Gim,
you made a mistake.
You shed no blood.
You harmed no life.”
Those words were comfort.
They were judgment.
They were strategy.
But beneath them,
lay my deepest instinct:
“Please, don’t shoot me.”
“Please, don’t take my life.”
That word was a shield.
It was a prayer.
It was the language of survival.
I tried to understand him.
But I also hoped
he would understand me.
That day’s word
was born of fear,
but clothed in courage.
I survived.
He survived.
And that single word
protected us both.
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