After passing the granite walls of the museum, the Bridge on the River Kwai appears. It’s just a rusty metal bridge, but we call it that. Beneath the bridge is a deep ravine. Sunbes call it the valley Mirinae, like the Milky Way … a barred spiral galaxy, billions of planets, black holes, even the deepest darkness become beautiful the moment someone gives them a name. The rocks protrude into the sky and water gurgles as it flows through them. If I had to choose a favorite spot on campus, this would be it. One day when acacia flowers were in full bloom, Sol and I sat on the Bridge on the River Kwai, dangling our legs and singing. To be more precise, I was learning a song called “When the Day Arrives” from her. When both our voices were getting hoarse, I handed her a postcard. I positioned the card in a way that the picture of a mysterious girl flying through the night sky was at the top.

Sol recognized the painting. “Chagall’s Acrobat.” She enunciated the English title, then translated it into Korean: A Jester. She had to be a show-off as usual. She told me Chagall painted for the masses. Flowers, trees, forests, people, houses—they all exist in his paintings for the people.

“Nah, that doesn’t sound right,” I said, but didn’t insist on it. I don’t remember what I actually wrote on the postcard. I think I closed by saying I really liked her. That we were sisters, bound by friendship thicker than blood. I think I might’ve written Let’s not change but then erased it because I felt embarrassed about it. Also because I felt bad about Jimin Sunbe for some reason. Did I cry a little then? Wait, was it Jimin, not Sol, who sat by my side like a small gift box?

There are a few lit streetlamps by the bridge. One, two, three … I take twenty-one steps along the bridge. My age. It’s too young for certain things but too old for some other things. With those steps, I end up in the middle of the bridge. When I sit down, the bridge is cold against my butt, but I can take it. I look around. No one is here. I lick my finger to open the folded letter. It feels like a late reply to my postcard. Three pages. My heart is thumping, but there is a lightness upon seeing the letter: Sol’s handwriting is terrible, I chuckle.

Hey friend,