detail from: KRK Art dizajn

A small town

A person gets lost most efficiently in a small environment, not because of its mysteriousness and the apparent modesty it exudes when meeting a visitor for the first time, but because of the wisdom with which it observes each guest.

Narrow and impassable streets, where passers-by seem to be counting broken stones, heads down, going through life. It is the same with the small town at the foot of the hill, located between the mountain stream on the left and the church and mosque on the right. In such places, everyone knows each other, there are no small or big secrets, they share joy and sorrow, and adversity is always the same. They came quietly in the twilight of time, passing along with life. This is a place where time seems to stand still, where the past, present, and future blend into a seamless continuum, offering a sense of continuity and stability.

The turn of the rain, the turn of the sun, the turn of the wind... Above all, autumn, the fog and the cold that seeped into the bones. The elders would be angry at the rheumatism and the draft that 'caught' them while harvesting the harvest by the river whose fruits ripen in the blush of the nearby glades, with the laughter and cries of children running on fallen chestnut trees. Whose bangs looked more like a hedgehog than an autumn fruit. The happiest days in the city were Thursdays when the women wore the most beautiful dresses. The unwritten rule was to wear new clothes that day. Mother would often re-wear a dress that had already been worn. She remade and sewed until deep into the night, adding some detail at a time. There was also room for a silver button from my father's coat.

It was the sixteenth of September. The sun broke through the fog, transforming the town with its vibrant rays. Suddenly, everything was more cheerful, the aches, rheumatism, and drafts of last summer vanished. Like stardust on hot summer nights, the smell of coffee spread along the steep cobblestones. The voices of passers-by, the sleep-deprived mothers, and the playful children turned the town into a lively beehive of autumn colours.

- God help you, Bisera! - came the hoarse, deep voice of the most respected man in the town, imam Mustafa, a petite, lively man with bright blue eyes. He held a tasbih in his hand, his fingers running over each of the thirty-three beads strung together in prayer.

- Marhaba, Imama Mustafa, how is the Mrs? - said the mother quietly.

- Eh! - he sighed deeply, breaking away from something that was squeezing him, from some depth that was dragging him to the bottom.

- She is sick these days, some burden has accumulated on her weak shoulders, so she is often in bed. Well, how are you two?

- We are fine, the cold days are coming, a lot of work in the field, and we also need wood for the winter to prepare... Let's go down to my house.

- Beautiful, beautiful, you are my blood! If you need anything, my house is always open to you. But even in these moments, there was a beauty that could not be denied, a beauty that made the heart swell with wonder and appreciation.

Thank you - said the mother.

The blush of the autumn sun spread over her cheeks as she caught a tear from her right eye in a handkerchief, and said softly, "God bless you!" I noticed my mother's thoughtfulness after the conversation with Imam Mustafa as if she was thinking about some other world scattered between life and fate. It's as if the clouds hide the glow of the autumn sun on her face as Hodja's generosity passes through her mind. At that moment I heard Karim's voice, realizing that it was meant for her, my mother.

- Masha Allah! - shouted Kareem, as if he was the messenger of autumn that everyone had to hear - people are talking about her beauty far and wide, Bisera, far and wide!

- People always talk about something, Kareem. And beauty... It passes with age if you are not careful. Remember, true beauty lies in the heart and soul, not just in the fleeting appearance.

Like a sickle in ripe wheat, his mother's voice filled with restlessness penetrated Karim. Always in the same place, he has been selling apples at the market for years. The relief of fate is engraved on the wrinkled face of all seasons. There were always women in front of the counter - they chose the best apples for the Sunday pie, neither sour nor sweet, neither green nor yellow. I shyly greeted Karim, but my eyes remained on the young man behind him, his youthful face and eager eyes. My mother elbowed me in the ribs, and Karim noticed it from behind the counter.

- Bisera, you haven't seen my son for a long time, he came back from Telangana. I sent him for two years to learn all about silk and trade. If I left my life on the street market, he doesn't have to. His return brings hope and a new beginning.

I felt relief, and I noticed that my mother had also softened, her usual sternness giving way to a gentle understanding.

If, if - said the mother, ready to go, when the voice of Kareem was heard again, this time sharp, in a raised tone, giving an order.

- Raheem! - called a dark-skinned, tall young man stacking sacks of apples. - This is my son- said Kareem proudly while Rahim extended his hand to his mother, greeting her with a warm, inviting smile.

It seemed to me that I knew Kareem and Raheem and my mother, just not myself, the town and I shrouded in mystery, muffled by these clearings and this cold wind that

passes through our bones. I don't remember if I told him my name or if all the voices remained silent at that moment; I only remember the glow in his dark eyes and the souls that recognized each other in the shadow of the small town located between the past and the future.

Like a torrential stream after rain, the cold restlessness filled my mother's blood, took me under the arm and led me home. Quick steps cut the scent of the mountain air underfoot as she repeated, her voice filled with protective reassurance, "You won't!"

My mother's words, which I did not understand, broke my mind, but it was clear to me that everyone noticed how Biser's daughter stared at Kareem's son.

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