The rain in the village of Gornja Straža didn't just fall; it reclaimed the earth. Within the dim light of the village’s only tavern, Marko sat across from Damir. Between them lay a signed deed for the old flour mill—a building that had been in Damir’s family for four generations.
"You're taking the last thing my father left me," Damir whispered, his voice cracking. He looked around the tavern, feeling the eyes of the other villagers. To lose the mill was to lose his status as a provider, his history, and his face in the community. "You’ve made me a beggar in my own home. You've humiliated me, Marko." nisam_te_ponizio
Damir looked at the contract, then back at the man he had called a vulture. The weight of the world didn't vanish, but the sting of shame began to dull. Marko clapped a hand on Damir’s shoulder, a gesture of equals, and signaled for another round of drinks. The rain in the village of Gornja Straža