I leaned in closer as my grandfather began to recount his time in Saigon during the Vietnam War. He told me about the nights he and his fellow soldiers went bar hopping, looking for a way to escape the horrors of war, even if it was just for a moment.

One night, my grandfather’s group stumbled upon a small bar on the edge of the city. It was cozy, warm, and inviting, with an old and wise bartender serving them drinks and making them laugh. For a while, they forgot about the war.

It was the perfect night, in the perfect bar, and they made plans to come back the next time they got a break. But when they tried to find the bar again, it was nowhere to be found. They asked around and described the bar and the old man, but no one seemed to know what they were talking about.

Determined to uncover the truth, the soldiers persisted until an old lady directed them to a pile of rubble. She told them that the bar had been destroyed by a bomb the year before, and everyone inside had perished.

As my grandfather spoke, I saw a far-off look in his eyes. I sensed that he was holding something back. “What else happened, Grandpa?” I asked.

He paused for a moment, then continued. “After we heard the old lady’s story, we realized that what we had seen in the bar was not living people, but ghosts. That bar and its inhabitants had been destroyed, but the ghosts remained, trapped in a place they could never leave.”

As my grandfather spoke, the hair on the back of my neck stood up. I had never considered the idea of ghosts in the context of war. It was a chilling thought.

“That night in that bar, we were just kids looking for a way to forget about the war,” my grandfather said. “But the ghosts of the past reminded us that we could never truly leave the war behind.”

I sat in silence, contemplating the weight of his words. My grandfather’s story had taken on a whole new dimension, and I was left with a newfound respect for the sacrifices he and his fellow soldiers had made.