"Marko, ," whispered Marija, the woman he had almost married before he vanished. Her eyes were softer than the others, but the curiosity was just as sharp. "They ask if you found what you were looking for. They ask if you ever thought of us."

He looked at Marija. "And all that time, the only person I was truly running from was the version of me that lived in your heads. You ask what I found? I found that the world is very big, and very lonely, and that the only questions that matter are the ones you ask yourself when the lights go out." The Aftermath

The questions didn't stop, but their power did. When someone would approach him at the market and start with "Pitaju me svi...", Marko would simply hand them an orange or a piece of bread and smile.

By the third day, the rumor mill was at a boiling point. In the local konoba , where the scent of grilled sardines and cheap red wine hung thick in the air, Marko sat in the corner. He wanted to be invisible, but in a place where everyone knows your grandfather’s middle name, invisibility is a luxury. One by one, they approached.