‘Marko Kovač, finally, died at dawn in his own bed, with his daughter’s hand in his. He was not a hero. He was not a ghost. He was a man who forgot how to live and spent thirty years remembering. Podgorica will not forget him, because Podgorica never forgets anything—especially the things we wish we could.’
She turned the book so Luka could read the final entry. It was written in elegant, angry cursive: umrlice podgorica
Here is a draft essay on the topic.