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 bl...