Jakov Stankovic

Frost clings to the railing outside my flat when I step onto Ilica before dawn. Streetlights flicker, catching tiles loosened by the earthquake three springs ago. I weave past scaffolding toward the newspaper office, my satchel knocking against my knees. I edit obituaries now, a job nobody fights for, but it steadies my nerves.

At forty-five, I’ve spent my life in Zagreb, Croatia, except for two restless semesters in Ljubljana that ended when Father slipped from a roof and I hurried home to share night shifts in his bakery. He died before the plaster dust cleared, leaving me a recipe book that smells of burnt walnut and coffee. Some nights I still open it just to remember his handwriting.

The newspaper corridor smells of ink and instant soup. I sit at the dim desk and shape final paragraphs for strangers. Today a notice arrives for a woman only a year older than I am. Cause of death: exhaustion and pneumonia. I pause, hearing her silence against the hum of fluorescent lights. I write about her garden in Maksimir, her love of stray cats, details gleaned from a shaky phone call with her brother. Words will cost him three kuna per line tomorrow.

During lunch I walk to Dolac market. Vendors stack cabbages like green stones, but customers hesitate, counting coins. Inflation blows through every stall like a cold wind. I buy a single tangerine, just to hand the farmer exact change and feel the brief weight of generosity.

Back at my desk, the printing press rattles. I think of my own half-written obituary saved on a USB stick at home. It begins with a loaf of rye cooled on a windowsill the day Yugoslavia broke apart. I keep revising, afraid of leaving a draft that lies.

Dusk drapes over Ban Jelačić Square when I clock out. Pigeons scatter as trams screech. On the bridge over the Sava I peel the tangerine. The air smells of diesel and citrus. I taste both and decide the ending still needs work. Perhaps tomorrow I will bake, just enough bread to share with one neighbor.