The journalist, Luka, pulled out a notebook. “The man in the window. Marko Kovač. Died 1993. Then again 2001. Then again 2019. How?”
It was a small, dusty shop wedged between a shuttered kafana and a souvenir stand that hadn't sold anything in years. The window displayed nothing but a single, cracked bell jar. Inside the jar, resting on faded velvet, was a single umrlica —a death notice. But not just any notice. This one was for a man who had died three times.
It wasn’t a funeral home. It wasn’t a cemetery.
“How many do you have under glass?” he asked.