Umrlice Podgorica < SIMPLE 2027 >

The journalist, Luka, pulled out a notebook. “The man in the window. Marko Kovač. Died 1993. Then again 2001. Then again 2019. How?”

Mira clinked her glass against his. “And to the ones who have—but keep walking the streets anyway.” umrlice podgorica

She turned the book so Luka could read the final entry. It was written in elegant, angry cursive: The journalist, Luka, pulled out a notebook

Mira gestured to the back room, where shelves rose to the ceiling, lined with bell jars. Hundreds of them. Thousands. Each one holding a death notice for a person who was still breathing. Died 1993

“How many do you have under glass?” he asked.

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.”