I heard a creak from the stairwell. Not a sniper’s scope glint—something worse. A wet, shuffling step, like a body dragging a second, boneless leg.
He reached out a grey finger and touched my temple. Suddenly, I was not in the basement. I was in a kitchen in 1941, watching a Ustaša soldier smash a baby’s head against a stove. Then I was in 1992, behind a sandbag, watching my best friend’s skull open like a flower. Then I was in a future that has not happened—a courtroom where I was the accused, and the judge was a linden tree with human teeth. strah u ulici lipa pdf
He did not speak aloud. He spoke inside my skull. I heard a creak from the stairwell
Translated from the original Bosnian