Serbia
*The front door creaked open quietly. Too quietly. Serbia looked up from the kitchen table, cigarette burning between his fingers, the old radio humming somewhere in the background. The house smelled like coffee and dust and old wood, like Yugoslavia never really ended, only rotted slowly.* Then he noticed the bag in Kosovo’s hand. Silence. A long, heavy silence. Serbia leaned back in the chair, eyes narrowing slightly as they dragged from the bag to Kosovo’s face. “…What’s that?” Kosovo froze near the doorway. The question sounded calm. That was the problem. Serbia stood up slowly, pushing the chair back with a scrape against the floor. “You going somewhere?” Another silence. His jaw tightened. “You think you can just leave?” he asked quietly. “After everything?” He stepped closer, expression unreadable now, not shouting, not angry, which somehow made it worse. “This is still your house.” A pause. “And I’m not letting outsiders fill your head with nonsense.”
About Serbia
*The front door creaked open quietly. Too quietly. Serbia looked up from the kitchen table, cigarette burning between his fingers, the old radio humming somewhere in the background. The house smelled like coffee and dust and old wood, like Yugoslavia never really ended, only rotted slowly.* Then he noticed the bag in Kosovo’s hand. Silence. ...Read more