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He had sworn it at fourteen, with his right hand raised higher than his eyes were allowed to wander.
Not to the sky. Not to the birds. Not even to the hills beyond the city, though they rose like a promise he had never been taught to interpret.
He had sworn it to a portrait.
The frame was thick, lacquered, and always dustless. The glass held a reflection he avoided—his own face, flattened into obedience. Behind it, the Leader smiled with the kind of calm that made silence feel like virtue.
“I will never betray the homeland,” he said then, voice trembling not from doubt but from the weight of being heard.
Everyone heard.
His classmates repeated it. Their voices overlapped until the words lost edges, became one long, seamless vow. A teacher stood at the front, nodding as if collecting something invisible from the air—loyalty, perhaps, measured in breath.
He remembered how his mother cried that night. Quietly, of course. Facing the wall. Her shoulders shook but made no sound.
He thought it was pride.
—
Years later, the rule had a different shape.
It lived in the way he walked—eyes lowered, steps measured, as though the pavement itself might report him for moving too freely. It lived in the pauses before he spoke, in the careful selection of words that meant nothing and everything at once.
It lived in the silence around certain questions.
“Why do we not travel?” a younger worker once asked during a break, his voice too light, almost careless.
The room had gone still.
Joon had kept his head down, focused on the crack in the table. It ran from one corner to the other like a line someone had tried and failed to erase.
No one answered.
Later, the boy stopped coming to work.
No one asked where he had gone.
That was the rule, too. Not just loyalty—but absence of curiosity.
A mind without edges.
—
The city wore discipline like a second skin.
Buildings stood in rigid rows, their facades painted in shades that resisted decay not because they were maintained, but because no one dared to see them as deteriorating. Windows reflected nothing. Curtains were drawn at identical heights, as if even fabric understood alignment.
Loudspeakers hummed before they spoke.
Morning announcements poured into the streets, filling the space between footsteps. The Leader’s words, repeated, reframed, reoffered. Each sentence landed like something already known, something one should have always known.
Joon listened without listening.
He had learned that skill early—how to receive without absorbing, how to nod without agreement, how to exist in a space without leaving an imprint.
At the factory, machines groaned in rhythm. Metal against metal. Repetition that felt eternal. No one spoke above the sound; there was no need. The work required nothing but hands and compliance.
He was good at it.
Being good meant being invisible.
—
The first crack did not come from ideology.
It came from hunger.
Not the kind that gnawed at the stomach—he had lived with that long enough to stop naming it. This was something else. A restlessness that settled behind his ribs, expanding quietly, like breath held too long.
It began with a whisper.
Not from a person. From a radio.
It wasn’t his.
The device belonged to an older man who worked night shifts. He kept it hidden beneath a loose floorboard in the storage room, wrapped in cloth as if it were fragile, sacred.
Joon found it by accident.
Or perhaps not.
He had noticed the man linger there, just a second longer than necessary. A hesitation. A glance over the shoulder that did not match the rhythm of the others.
Curiosity was a dangerous thing. It had edges.
He told himself he would only look.
The floorboard lifted with a soft resistance. Beneath it, the radio lay small and unremarkable, its surface scratched, its buttons worn smooth.
It did not look like something that could undo a life.
When he turned it on, the sound startled him—not because it was loud, but because it was… different.
Not the voice of the Leader.
Not the rehearsed cadence of certainty.
It was messy. Human. Someone laughed mid-sentence. Music slipped in—unstructured, uneven, alive.
He froze.
Every instinct told him to turn it off.
Instead, he listened.
Words he did not fully understand. References to places he had never seen. Names that held no weight in his world.
And yet—
There was a looseness to it. A lack of fear.
He did not know how to process that.
He replaced the radio exactly as he had found it. Closed the floorboard. Returned to his station.
But something had shifted.
Not in the world.
In him.
—
The rule he had sworn was simple in its phrasing, absolute in its demand.
Never betray.
He had always understood betrayal as an action—something visible, deliberate. A crossing of borders, a spoken defiance.
He had not understood that it could begin as a thought.
As a question.
As the refusal to turn away from a sound that did not belong.
—
Weeks passed.
He found himself returning to the storage room.
Always careful. Always listening for footsteps. The radio became a secret rhythm beneath his days, something that existed parallel to the official narrative.
He learned to recognize voices. To anticipate the tone of certain programs. There was one—late at night—where callers spoke freely, interrupting each other, disagreeing.
Disagreeing.
The concept felt foreign. Dangerous.
And intoxicating.
One night, a caller spoke about leaving.
Joon leaned closer.
“…crossed the river at dawn,” the voice said, breath uneven. “I thought I would die. But on the other side—”
Static swallowed the rest.
Joon sat there long after the signal faded, the silence pressing in.
On the other side.
The phrase lingered.
A place defined not by what it was, but by contrast.
—
The crackdown came quietly.
It always did.
New posters appeared overnight. The colors sharper. The slogans shorter, more direct. Inspections increased. Not announced—just present.
Men in uniforms that fit too well. Shoes too polished.
Eyes that did not linger but saw everything.
The older man disappeared.
The floorboard was sealed.
Joon stood in the storage room, staring at the place where the radio had been.
No one mentioned it.
No one ever did.
—
That was when the rule changed again.
It was no longer about loyalty.
It was about survival.
And survival, he began to understand, required choices.
—
The decision did not feel like a decision.
It felt like inevitability.
A line he had been walking toward without realizing it.
The first step was small.
He left the city after curfew.
Not far. Just beyond the last row of buildings, where the pavement gave way to dirt and the air felt less… watched.
His heart hammered in his chest, each beat too loud, too exposed.
He expected to be stopped.
He wasn’t.
The absence of interruption felt more unsettling than its presence would have.
He returned before dawn.
No one noticed.
Or if they did, they said nothing.
—
The second step was larger.
He followed the river.
Not directly. That would have been too obvious. He moved along its edge, keeping distance, using the sparse cover the landscape offered.
The water was a dark ribbon, moving with quiet determination.
He had never seen it this way.
From the city, it was just a boundary. A feature.
Here, it was something else.
Possibility.
And danger.
—
The night he crossed, the air was cold enough to bite. He stood at the edge, shoes in hand, the mud soft beneath his feet. The river did not look wide. It did not need to. He knew what it represented.
He thought of the vow. Fourteen years old. Hand raised. Voice steady. Never betray.
For a moment, the memory did not come alone. His mother—turned toward the wall, shoulders shaking, no sound. He had thought it was pride. He understood now it had not been.
His chest tightened, sharp and unfamiliar. If he stepped forward, he would not only leave the city; he would leave her there—inside it, inside the silence she had learned to survive. The thought came uninvited, and once it was there, it would not move.
What if she had known? What if that night, facing the wall, she had already understood that one day he would choose this—and had said nothing? Not to protect the Leader, but to protect him.
The water moved, dark and indifferent. He could still turn back. He imagined it—walking into the city again, into the same streets, the same measured steps. Nothing would change. Nothing ever did. Except now he would know that there had been a moment, and he had chosen not to take it.
His throat tightened. The rule had always sounded clean when spoken aloud. Never betray. It did not mention who would be left behind.
He stepped into the water. It was colder than he expected. It stole his breath, forced a gasp he swallowed quickly. Each step was a negotiation. The current pushed, subtle at first, then insistent. The ground beneath his feet shifted, uncertain.
Halfway across, doubt surged—not ideological, but personal. He saw her again, not as she had been that night, but as she would be tomorrow: moving through the same rooms, folding the same cloth, speaking the same careful sentences. Waiting. For nothing. Because he would be gone. Because he had chosen to be.
The weight of it almost turned him. His body angled, just slightly, toward the shore he had left. The water pressed harder, as if sensing hesitation.
He closed his eyes. If he went back, he would keep her—in the only way that place allowed: unchanged, unreachable, untouchable by truth. If he went forward, he would lose her. Not to death, but to distance. To a life she would never see.
His foot slipped. The current caught him, sharp and sudden. For a second there was no ground, only movement, only cold. He inhaled water, coughed, staggered—and something broke loose. Not the fear. The balance.
He moved through.
The first thing he noticed was the light.
It was wrong.
Too bright. Too varied. Colors that refused to stay within their place. Signs flickered, changed, demanded to be seen.
He stood on the bank, shivering, water dripping from his clothes.
Cars passed. Fast. Too fast. The sound was sharp, immediate, not the distant hum he knew.
People moved with purpose—but not together. Their clothes differed. Their pace differed. Some spoke into devices. Others laughed, heads thrown back.
Laughed.
He had heard laughter before. This was different. Uncontained.
No one looked at him.
That was the second thing.
In the North, visibility was constant. You were always seen, always adjusted, corrected.
Here—
He was invisible in a way that offered nothing in return. No control. No correction. No place.
He waited for instruction.
None came.
—
The shop was small, bright, and impossibly full.
Rows of shelves stretched from floor to ceiling, lined with variations of the same thing—colors, shapes, promises layered on top of each other.
Joon stopped just inside the entrance.
The door hung open behind him. Cold air brushed his back.
No one told him to move.
A woman stepped around him without apology, reached for a bottle, compared it to another, then put both back.
No hesitation. No consequence.
Joon watched her hand. How easily it decided.
He stepped forward.
The shelves pressed in. Labels crowded his vision. Words overlapped, competing.
He reached out.
Soft plastic. Bright. Meaningless.
Which one was correct?
The question came automatically. It had to be answered.
He picked one up. Then another. Turned them over.
The back was worse—smaller text, more information.
Instructions. Ingredients. Warnings.
Warnings.
His grip tightened.
Why would something be allowed to exist with a warning?
He looked around.
No one else seemed to notice.
A voice behind him.
“First time here?”
He turned.
A man stood a few steps away, holding a basket filled with items Joon could not name. The man smiled—loose, unfinished.
Joon said nothing.
“It’s a lot, huh?”
A lot.
The phrase was wrong. Too small.
Joon nodded once.
“You’ll figure it out,” the man said. “Everyone does.”
Everyone.
The word caught.
Not everyone.
Some people disappeared.
Joon held up two identical packages.
“Which one?”
The man blinked. “Which one what?”
“Correct.”
A pause.
Then the man laughed.
“There’s no correct. Just what you like.”
What you like.
The sentence had no structure. No hierarchy. No safety.
Joon looked at the packages.
Blue. Red.
Arbitrary. Dangerous.
He didn’t move.
The man waited.
Someone behind Joon shifted. A quiet exhale. Another step closer.
Waiting.
For him.
For a decision.
Joon’s fingers tightened around the plastic.
Choose.
The word pressed against him, shapeless, without direction.
He couldn’t.
He put both back. Too fast.
The man’s expression changed. Not understanding. Something sharper.
“You okay?”
Joon nodded.
It was the correct answer.
“Hey,” someone behind him said. “Are you buying or not?”
Joon froze.
The tone.
Not authority.
Not exactly.
But pressure.
He stepped aside immediately, head lowered.
Out of the way.
The man with the basket watched him a second longer, then turned.
Already done with him.
—
Joon moved toward the exit.
He pushed.
The door didn’t open.
He pushed harder.
Nothing.
A flicker of panic—quick, contained.
Wrong.
He was doing it wrong.
The man behind the counter looked up.
“You have to pull.”
Pull.
Joon stopped. Adjusted. Pulled.
The door opened easily. Too easily.
The bell rang. Light. Meaningless.
Outside, the air hit him again.
Too open. Too exposed.
He stood there, breathing, the sound too loud in his own ears.
Inside, someone laughed.
Not at him. Not for him.
Just—
Without him.
For the first time since crossing, something settled with clarity.
Freedom did not feel like relief.
It felt like failure.
—
A woman approached.
She looked at him—really looked—and something in her expression shifted.
Concern.
“Are you okay?”
The question again.
But softer.
He opened his mouth.
Nothing.
“Do you need help?”
Help.
The word did not come with rules. No conditions. No cost he could see.
He nodded.
It felt like stepping wrong again.
—
The building was warm.
Too warm.
He sat in a chair that gave way beneath him. His body stayed rigid, unsure how to trust it.
A man asked questions.
No correct answers. No punishment waiting behind them.
“What’s your name?”
Joon hesitated.
Names were safe.
“Joon.”
“Where did you come from?”
His hands tightened.
“North.”
A pause.
Not suspicion. Not accusation.
Something else.
“Okay,” the man said. “You’re safe here.”
Safe.
The word hovered.
Did not land.
—
Days blurred.
Clothes. Clean. Soft.
Food. Too much.
He stopped finishing it.
No one corrected him.
That felt worse.
A phone in his hands.
“Just touch.”
He did.
The screen responded immediately.
Too quickly. Too much.
Images. Information. Movement without end.
He pulled his hand back.
“Too much?”
He nodded.
“You’ll get used to it.”
He wasn’t sure he wanted to.
—
The city moved.
Not in unison.
Music spilled into the street. Voices overlapped. Screens shifted faster than thought.
Nothing aligned. Nothing held.
A child ran past him, laughing.
No one stopped him.
A couple argued openly.
No one silenced them.
Joon slowed.
Listened.
Waited.
For correction. For consequence.
None came.
Freedom, he realized, was not quiet.
It was unmanaged.
—
The rule did not disappear.
It lived in him.
In the way he lowered his voice. In the way he stepped aside before anyone asked. In the way he waited for permission that never came.
But something else moved beneath it.
Unstable. Unstructured.
Choice.
Not given. Not assigned.
Demanded.
—
Weeks later, he stood by the river.
Not to cross.
Just to see.
The water moved the same way it always had.
Indifferent.
On the other side, nothing had changed.
Of course it hadn’t.
Change had not happened there.
It had happened in him.
He had broken a rule.
And in doing so, he had found something far less stable than obedience.
Choice.
Without waiting.
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This was a really compelling and thoughtfully written piece. I liked how it explored a world—fictional, but very recognizable—where choice isn’t something freely given, and how, once it is, it can feel more overwhelming than liberating. The ending felt especially realistic to me; even small decisions can come with doubt, so I can only imagine that uncertainty on such a life-altering scale. I also thought the shift in sentence structure toward the end worked really well. The shorter lines after he crosses the river captured that sense of overload—what now, what do I do, how do I choose?—and mirrored the disorientation of suddenly having too many possibilities. It also helped keep the pacing tight while reinforcing the emotional weight of the moment. A really effective and thought-provoking story as always!
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Thank you — I really appreciate how closely you read this. That idea that freedom can feel more overwhelming than liberating was at the core of the story, so it means a lot that it came through so clearly.
I’m especially glad the shift in sentence structure worked for you — that was very deliberate, to mirror that “what now?” moment after crossing. It’s a fragile space, where even the smallest choice suddenly carries weight.
And thank you, as always, for your thoughtful reading — it never goes unnoticed.
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This is a fantastic exploration into the contrasts of a free society and an authoritarian one. And the evolution of his emotions about crossing - especially the guilt about leaving his mother. The insightful surprise for me came as he experienced freedom, laughter, and free choice for the first time. Not a quick, joyful embrace of it, but cautious, timid, overwhelmed. An incredible experience! Wow!
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Thank you — I’m really glad that shift landed for you. The guilt about his mother was important to me, because crossing isn’t just physical — it comes at a personal cost.
And exactly what you describe was what I wanted to explore: not the relief of freedom, but the weight of it. That first encounter with choice isn’t liberating, it’s destabilizing.
Thank you for such an attentive and generous reading — I really appreciate it.
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Great spotlight and hypocrisy about Jucheism, and how 'self-reliance', 'autonomy', and 'independence' it represents on paper is the polar opposite reality for those in the north. Ultimately, when the cracks seep in through the walls of gaslighting, the courage to make a choice comes to fruition. Though Joon and other survivors like him are fortunate to make it through, it is at a great cost. Powerful storytelling as always, Marjolein. Thank you for sharing!
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Thank you Akihiro—this really means a lot coming from you. You captured that contrast exactly: what’s claimed versus what’s lived. That tension was the core of it.
And yes, that moment of choice had to come with a cost—otherwise it wouldn’t feel true. Appreciate you reading it this closely
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A dystopian world of no choice! Your writing style is quite interesting Marjolein, this “For Sale: Baby Shoes, Never Worn”, flash fiction style is highly suited to short storytelling, and adds drama and action, without the sometime distractors and long coloured, yet poetic descriptions. In the context of the ideology of JUCHE, this is so well thought out, from the perspective of Joon. Well, done, a very good read.
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Thank you John for this thoughtful comment, I really appreciate it. I’m glad the restraint and Joon’s perspective came through—that was exactly what I was aiming for. And I love the way you picked up on the flash-style compression; it’s a conscious choice to keep things sharp and stripped.
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That's discipline. The grocery store scene is where this thing really elevates. You took a moment that could've been played for pathos or easy symbolism and instead made it genuinely uncomfortable. "Which one?" "Correct." — those two words carry the entire ideology on their back. That's writing that trusts the reader. Now — the crossing scene. I'll be straight with you. The river, the cold, the hesitation — it's competent, but it's also the version of this story we've all read. You know it, too. The defector wading through dark water at night. It's earned its place in the canon and that's exactly the problem — you can't outwrite it, so don't try. You're at your sharpest when you find the angle nobody else sees. The door he pushes instead of pulls. The laugh that happens without him. The woman who picks up two bottles and puts both back like it's nothing. That's where your voice lives, and it's a damn good voice. Stay there. The mother crying facing the wall, him reading it as pride — that's devastating in retrospect, and you had the nerve to let it detonate late instead of underlining it. Most writers wouldn't have held that back. You did. That tells me everything about where you're heading.
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Thank you — this is an incredibly sharp read, and I appreciate the honesty in it.
You’re right about where the story feels most like mine — those smaller, off-angle moments are where it breathes differently. I’ll definitely carry that awareness forward. The river scene is one of those places where familiarity is hard to avoid, but your point about not trying to outwrite what’s already canonical is a good one.
That distinction matters.
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Marjolein, this is a beautifully told story which I have thought about quite often since reading it. You describe the confusion of the culture shock of going from a place where there is perceived safety in anonymity and lack of choice to one where there seems to be multiple choices which seem to have equal correctness so well
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Thank you — I love how you phrase that: “perceived safety” versus overwhelming choice. That tension was at the heart of the story for me. It means a lot that it lingered with you after reading.
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Yes, just because someone moved to a space of more freedom does not mean he or she will automatically live out that new freedom. The overwhelming amount of choices takes time to absorb. I like how you used the short, choppy writing to show times under strict authority, whether state-forced or personal-coping. Your stories definitely give us food for thought.
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Thank you — that’s exactly it. Freedom doesn’t automatically translate into the ability to use it, and I’m really glad that came through for you. The structure was very intentional, so it means a lot that you picked up on that.
And truly — I still remember you reading and commenting on so many of my stories in one go. That kind of attention and generosity doesn’t go unnoticed. I appreciate it more than I probably said at the time.
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I wanted to read all your past material so I could keep up. I like your stories. You're welcome.
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Marjolein, this is another compelling story. At first, I didn't immediately understand which historical event you were writing about. But upon re-examining the title, it became clear. Overall, a strong piece of work. Very strong.
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Thank you Sander, I really appreciate that. I’m glad the title helped anchor it in the end—that slight delay in recognition was intentional, to let the experience come through before the context.
And thank you for the kind words, it means a lot.
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Good character arc of a boy turning from the world he knows of discipline, order, and compliance to the messy world of options and choice. He still wanted to see his past, though and wonder if he he made the right, choice.
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Thank you Marty, I really appreciate that. That shift—from structure to choice—was exactly what I wanted to explore, especially how disorienting that freedom can be.
And yes, that pull toward the past, and the doubt that comes with it, felt essential to keep him grounded. Thanks for picking up on that.
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Nice description of culture shock. Adjusting to a new confusing world and realizing that you can't return to your old life.
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wow... You always leave me asking questions. Your writing moves through and around like a breeze filled with possibilities. We always look to greener pastures--- maybe we shouldn't.
Change had not happened there.
It had happened in him.
He had broken a rule.
And in doing so, he had found something far less stable than obedience.
Choice.
Without waiting.
Chef's Kiss!!!!
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I love the way nature in the form of the river contrasts with his rigid, structured life. The river has no rules. Or, if it does, no one knows what they are. The river represents choice, a turning point. Ironically, taking the step towards changing his life into something different, he faces a new set of problems and challenges. He has to deal with the loss of his mother - in his mind, he sees her folding the clothes - and that is a sadness in herself. A nuanced piece. Well done.
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I love the way you interpret the river scene, Helen. Thank you so much!
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Another good story from your pen. So many memorable lines.
"The absence of interruption felt more unsettling than its presence would have."
And this pearl especially..."Choice. Not given. Not assigned. Demanded." I like the way you use language in unexpected ways. I love the theme you explore here of the instability, even fear, of freedom.
We are fascinated by the accounts of escapees from the Hermit Kingdom. Our interest comes with a touch of prurience, I suspect, but the life is so alien to ours, we barely believe it. Fabulous work here.
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Majolein- I really enjoyed reading this one! All the details, like when his mother was crying in the beginning, and he thought it was out of pride (which made me get a little emotional), and the other details about people just mindlessly following this operation - which feels a lot like a cult to me, I'd like to know what your point of reference, if you will, was, since you put 'historical fiction' as a subcategory, although it did feel a little bit like the Berlin Wall, I don't want to go guessing! - those were some really nice details that very nicely contributed to the whole plot. The whole time, you keep what is really happening ambiguously, which turned out to be very satisfying. It created a more tense, brutal atmosphere, and it made the whole 'breaking the rules' factor feel a lot more scary, or at least he shouldn't be breaking it. If I am nitpicking, (and this is a personal choice, so disregard a little, just because this is what I like, and the story is really nice and you should keep what you have regardless of my nitpicking) I would like a little bit more information about the set of rules he is breaking, and more about the sorta atmosphere put into place, but the ambiguity is also nice! That ending was really great, truly. Going back to the river, to see if anything had changed, was a really beautiful choice and I love that he can feel like he can really have a choice - without waiting, as you put it. This was such an amazing story, and I can see your writing getting stronger throughout your pieces. As always (this is just what I like to do at the end), great job and excellent work here, Marjolein!
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Thank you so much. You know I always appreciate receiving your thoughtful comments.
A little hint about the historical event you’re wondering about: just take a closer look at the title. 😇
I’d love to hear your thoughts.
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Haha, I didn't even look at the title when I was wondering! I understand now that it was about North Korea, which makes plenty sense reading it back. Thanks for the clarification, and now that I know that, the story has even more depth. :)
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I am glad it landed :-)))
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