Lost in Belgrade

I stepped off the train in Belgrade. The cold air stung my face. People rushed past me. Cars honked in the distance. Trams hummed nearby. The city felt alive but distant. I felt like I didn’t belong.

The apartment sat on Kralja Petra Street. Cobblestones lined the narrow road. Old buildings towered around me. My building’s façade had cracks. The paint had faded long ago. Zorica, my landlord, met me outside. She handed me the key. Her tone was curt. “It’s old,” she said. “It creaks. Ignore it.”

The apartment loomed empty. The ceilings stretched high. Cracks marred the plaster. The wooden floor groaned with each step. The light bulbs flickered faintly. I unpacked my belongings that evening. Each room felt colder than the last. The bedroom had an old dresser. I opened a drawer and paused. A small notebook lay in the corner. Its leather cover was smooth. My name, Miloš Petković, was on the front.

I sat on the bed. My heart beat faster. I flipped the notebook open. The first pages looked blank. Faint writing appeared under the light. “November 3rd. I’ve arrived. The city feels heavy. It’s waiting for something. Maybe it’s just me. I can’t forget Novi Sad. I can’t forget what I left.”

I froze. The words mirrored my thoughts. They described my day. I turned the page. “The apartment feels strange. The walls creak. It sounds like someone’s breathing. The place feels alive.” The words made me shiver. My breath quickened. My eyes scanned the room. The next page chilled me more. “Don’t look in the mirror tonight. It’s not ready yet.”

My gaze darted to the mirror. The glass was dusty. My reflection looked blurred. I slammed the notebook shut. I dropped it on the dresser. My hands shook. My chest tightened. “It’s a joke,” I whispered. My voice sounded unsteady. The night dragged on. Sleep wouldn’t come. Every sound felt louder. The floor creaked. Wind whistled through the windows. The walls seemed to shift.

I turned toward the mirror once. The streetlamp outside lit its surface. My reflection stared back. But something felt off. The face was mine. The expression wasn’t. It looked detached. It watched me. I turned away quickly. My pulse raced. My hands felt cold. I told myself I was imagining things. “It’s stress,” I said. I wanted to believe it. But as I lay in bed, one thought lingered. Who wrote that notebook? Why does it feel meant for me?

Gray skies greeted me. My room, cold, felt smaller. Outside, faint street sounds filtered through the glass. I couldn’t stay still. By noon, I left. The walls felt stifling. My steps carried me to Kalemegdan Fortress. Its ancient stones loomed near the rivers. Crisp air hit my face. Families wandered, voices mingling with the wind. Children’s laughter echoed by the Victor statue. I moved aimlessly.

A man, in a dark coat, caught my eye. He leaned against the wall, motionless. His eyes, hidden in shadows, followed me. I walked faster. My steps quickened. But each turn revealed him—always distant, yet near enough. At a bench, I stopped. My phone, a distraction, shook in my hands. I glanced up. He vanished.

Back at the apartment, unease returned. The air, thick, weighed on me. The mirror in my bedroom seemed darker. Its surface clouded, reflecting only faint shapes. I avoided it. Instead, my focus went to the notebook. It sat where I left it, silent yet foreboding. I opened it. New words, faint and uneven, stared back: “Kalemegdan knows. The rivers see everything.” My pulse quickened. I flipped a page. “You saw him today. He saw you too.” I slammed it shut. My breath came fast. My skin felt clammy. The words stayed in my head.

The rest of the day passed in fragments. Pacing. Thinking. The mirror, lurking. At midnight, a sound broke the stillness. A soft brush—fabric on wood—came from the bedroom. Fear rooted me. My legs refused to move. Finally, I forced myself to the doorway. The mirror shimmered faintly in the moonlight. My reflection stared back, wrong. Its lips curled into a smile. I stepped back. My chest tightened. The reflection leaned closer. It mouthed words I couldn’t hear. My hands shook.

I grabbed the notebook. Dark ink scrawled a single line: “Tomorrow, you’ll meet him.” The night stretched long. Each creak of the floorboards sounded alive. My breath trembled, heavy with fear. I wasn’t alone.

Morning came slow. My body, exhausted, begged for rest. But sleep hadn’t come. The notebook’s words replayed in my head. I avoided the mirror. I dressed quickly, forcing myself outside. The fresh air burned my lungs. The Danube shimmered under the gray sky. I walked along its edge, where the city’s noise faded. The fortress stood tall behind me. My phone buzzed. A message. The number, unknown: "By the river. We wait."

The words froze me. My hands trembled. I looked around. The path stretched empty. Still, I walked. My heart raced. Each step felt heavier. Near a bend, I stopped. The man in the dark coat stood there, staring into the water. He didn’t move. I approached cautiously. My voice, weak, barely carried. “Who are you?”

He turned slowly. His face seemed familiar—too familiar. The lines of his jaw mirrored mine. His eyes, darker than the river, locked on me. “You’ve always known,” he said. His voice, cold, cut through the silence.

“What do you want?” I demanded. My legs threatened to buckle. His lips curled into a faint smile. “I don’t want anything. But they do.” He gestured behind him. The river rippled unnaturally. Shadows rose from the water, twisting into forms. Faces flickered, hollow-eyed and silent. “You brought them,” he continued. “Every choice, every step, led you here.”

I shook my head. “I don’t understand.” “They are what’s left,” he said. “Fragments of what you’ve ignored. Memories. Shadows.” The figures moved closer. My breath caught. Each one bore a familiar shape—faces from my past, lost moments, forgotten decisions. “No,” I whispered. My hands clenched into fists. “This isn’t real.”

He tilted his head. “It’s as real as you make it.” The shadows reached me. Cold fingers brushed my skin. Whispers filled the air, growing louder. I stumbled back, but they surrounded me. My reflection, my memories, my regrets—they consumed the space. “Face them,” the man commanded. His tone sharpened. “Or they’ll take you.” The whispers pressed into my ears. I clutched my head, shutting my eyes. Flashes of pain, loss, and doubt bombarded me. A voice, faint but clear, rose above the chaos. “Remember yourself.”

I opened my eyes. The shadows faltered. The man in the coat stepped closer. His features blurred, shifting into my own. “I’m you,” he said. “The you you left behind.” The words hit like a blow. My knees buckled. The figures vanished into the water, and the air stilled. He reached out. His hand met mine. “You know what to do.”

When I looked up again, I was alone. The river flowed gently. The city hummed in the distance. In my pocket, the notebook’s pages were blank. But the weight of its words lingered. The world seemed different—sharper, heavier. And within me, something stirred, both familiar and foreign. I turned away from the river, the shadows now behind me. But their whispers lingered. And I knew they always would.