walls and listening to every drop of water, I found myself at the library. Its hollowness echoed and I could not penetrate it. As it burned I understood that he had been here all along, he had worked with the group, lived in their dom, their building, had used the water as his language. Yet when the water stopped he found a voice carried by smoke. The echo of this building shell was his lament and I heard it for the last time that night as it burned. The man in the striped shirt appeared at the corner and ducked away, the fat woman with her red purse was eating cevapcici at the cafe across the river, the photographer was taking picures of the bald man in front of the mosque. All of them watched me as I turned towards bascarsija and walked away.

I left the city as I had entered it, unnoticed.

My son is with me now, he came later, sick from the promaja that had carried him through the cracks of the boarded up windows. We do not speak the same language yet but we understand the sound of the water that clanks through our pipes. We know the value of windows that open and close. We remember the group from the time of glass. And welcome the smoke into our rooms as the fireplace warms us.

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