Her name was Han Ji-eun, and she was thirty-eight, an elegant woman whose carefully arranged hair had come loose during the confusion. She approached with a station employee, her face filled with panic and relief.
"Soo-bin!"
The little girl immediately reached toward her.
Ji-eun knelt and embraced her niece, crying as she apologized for losing hold of her hand in the crowd.
Nia stepped back.
She was exhausted, and the smell of smoke had begun making her throat uncomfortable. Emergency personnel were checking passengers, and she wanted to give the family space to reunite.
But Soo-bin reached for her again.
"언니, 가지 마세요."
Please don't go.
Nia stopped.
The child looked toward her aunt.
"이 언니가 노래 불러줬어요."
She sang to me.
Ji-eun looked up.
Her eyes were wet.
In Korean, she thanked Nia repeatedly for remaining with Soo-bin, helping her reach the station staff, and keeping her calm.
Nia shook her head.
"괜찮아요. 누구라도 그랬을 거예요."
It's okay. Anyone would have done the same.
Ji-eun disagreed.
She explained that Soo-bin had been struggling emotionally since her mother's death two years earlier. Crowded places sometimes frightened her, and loud, unexpected noises could make it difficult for her to speak.
The station emergency had overwhelmed her.
Nia looked toward the child.
Soo-bin was leaning against her aunt, holding the small pink backpack against her chest.
For a moment, Nia remembered her own father's funeral.
The voices.
The flowers.
And the strange emptiness of returning to a home where someone essential would never come through the door again.
She understood a little of what the child was carrying.
Ji-eun asked for her name.
"Nia Brooks," she answered.
The aunt repeated it carefully.
Then began searching for her phone so she could save the contact information.
But her hands were trembling, and emergency staff needed to finish documenting the child's condition.
A responder asked Nia whether she'd experienced any injuries.
She shook her head.
Then someone called for assistance translating instructions to a foreign passenger nearby.
Nia turned.
She could help.
So she moved away for a few minutes.
By the time she returned, Ji-eun and Soo-bin had been escorted toward a waiting vehicle for further assessment.
The crowd had thinned.
The emergency response was still continuing.
And the family was gone.
Nia was disappointed, but not devastated.
She assumed she'd never see the little girl again.
Seoul was enormous.
People helped strangers every day without exchanging names, photographs, or telephone numbers. The thought that she'd done something useful was enough.
She went home, showered, and slept for nearly twelve hours.