Outside, the rain stopped. Somewhere across the river, a church bell rang—not for a funeral, but for the evening prayer. Luka closed his notebook.
The cold November rain had been falling on Podgorica for three straight days, turning the streets of the Stara Varoš into slick, dark mirrors. Under the dim glow of a flickering streetlamp near the Ribnica Bridge, a faded sign read . umrlice podgorica
Mira tapped the glass of the bell jar with a yellowed fingernail. “First notice: ‘ Marko Kovač, beloved father, soldier. ’ That was the war. He died in the hills, they said. But he walked back into Podgorica three months later, his uniform gone, his eyes like two burnt holes. He came to me and said, ‘Mira, print a retraction.’ I told him, ‘I don’t print retractions. Only umrlice.’ So he paid me to print a second one.” Outside, the rain stopped
Luka looked up. “But he’s… still alive? The notice is under the bell jar. You only put them under the jar when the person is still walking around.” The cold November rain had been falling on
Luka raised his glass. “To the ones who haven’t died yet.”
That night, the journalist didn’t write a single word. He just walked the wet cobblestones of Podgorica, looking at every passerby differently—wondering which of them had a notice waiting under a bell jar, in a tiny shop by the bridge, where the dead went to be remembered and the living went to be reminded.