Inside, the precinct smelled of disinfectant and old paper. Fluorescent lights hummed. Victor followed the officer down a narrow hallway, past doors labeled Arhivă , Audiențe , Birou 19 . They stopped at a small window—the same one he’d stood at four times before. Behind it sat a woman in her fifties, reading glasses perched on her nose. Her nameplate said Mihaela Vancu – Secretariat .
Victor unfolded the paper. His name. His date of birth. His CNP. And then, in the long box under “Mențiuni” : .
“Mulțumesc,” he said. His voice cracked. He cleared his throat. “Mulțumesc frumos.” program eliberare cazier sectia 19
“Ce vrei?”
“Sunt aici pentru un cazier. Eliberare.” Inside, the precinct smelled of disinfectant and old paper
But first, he would walk to the cemetery in Cernica. He would sit by his mother’s grave and unfold this paper and read it out loud. So she could hear it, wherever she was.
“Stați un moment,” she said. She stood up and disappeared into the back room. They stopped at a small window—the same one
Victor placed his ID on the counter. She picked it up, compared the photo to his face, then typed something into an ancient computer. The monitor flickered. She frowned.