Бесплатный фрагмент - Cartographer of scars

Author’s Preface

Dear Reader,

This book was born from silence. From the silence that remains after war. From the silence in which only the echoes of pain, fear, and loss can be heard.

I write these lines in an era where conflicts rage in different corners of the world, blood is shed, and human destinies are shattered under the weight of violence. My heart aches for those who suffer, who lose loved ones, who are forced to leave their homes. I express my deepest respect and support to all who, despite everything, retain their humanity and faith in a better future.

“The Cartographer of Scars” is not a dispatch from the front lines. It is not a chronicle of military operations. It is a story about the aftermath of war, about those who survived it but were left with unhealed wounds in their souls. It is about how the past influences the present, how past traumas haunt us, and how one can find a path to healing.

At the heart of this story is Miloš, an old cartographer who draws maps of the scars on his patients’ bodies. Each scar is not just a physical mark but a symbol of pain endured, a sign of a story that must be told.

Beside him is Aliya, a young psychologist trying to help war veterans find peace within themselves. She searches for new methods of treatment, new approaches to understanding the human psyche.

Together, they embark on a journey through the labyrinths of human memory to find answers to the most difficult questions: How does one live after war? How does one forgive oneself and others? How does one find meaning in suffering?

This book is not an attempt to assign blame or to justify evil. It is an attempt to understand what happens to a person when they face the horrors of war. It is a call for compassion, for mercy, for humanity.

I hope this story will touch your hearts, make you think about the price of war, and about how important it is to cherish peace.

I dedicate this book to all the victims of war, to all who seek healing, to all who believe in a better future.

With hope for peace,

Madina Fedosova

Prologue

In the sterile operating room, where hope usually triumphed, today death reigned. Salty sweat stung Miloš’s eyes, mingling with the red haze clouding his mind. Time seemed to have coiled into a tight spring, ready to snap at any moment and leave nothing but emptiness.

Miloš bent over the body that was once full of life, now mangled and bloodied. It was Emir, just a boy — nineteen years old, with eyes the color of the Bosnian sky, who dreamed of becoming a teacher. Now, on the operating table, lay only a broken doll, devoid of a soul yet desperately clinging to the fading thread of life.

The bullet, like an evil fate, had torn through his chest, shattering a rib and mercilessly severing an artery. Blood, thick and hot, gushed out, drenching Miloš’s hands, slicking the cold metal of the instruments, turning everything into a crimson nightmare. He worked quickly, with movements honed to automation by years of practice, but today, despite all efforts, victory was slipping away.

“Hang on, Emir, hang on, boy,” Miloš whispered, his voice trembling with fatigue and helplessness. He knew Emir could no longer hear him, that his consciousness had long left this world, but he kept repeating the words like an incantation, a prayer offered into the void.

He remembered Emir’s eyes, full of fear and plea, when they had brought him in hours earlier. He had promised him everything would be alright, that he would save him. But now, looking at his motionless face, Miloš understood he would not be able to keep that promise.

Suddenly, as if by some malicious design, Emir’s heart fluttered, beat irregularly, and then — stopped. The silence that fell in the operating room was deafening. Miloš frantically tried CPR, trying to breathe life into the lifeless body, but it was all in vain. Emir was gone.

Miloš slumped back in his chair, feeling an icy wave of despair wash over him. He looked at his hands, trembling and smeared with Emir’s blood. These hands, meant to save lives, had been powerless in the face of death. These hands, meant to bring healing, had brought only pain and loss.

His gaze swept over Emir’s body. Every scar, every wound, every cut left by surgical instruments told its own story — a story of war, of violence, of shattered destinies. On this young body, which had just begun to live, the signs of death were already inscribed.

Who would read these stories now? Who would learn of Emir’s dreams and hopes? Who would remember his name?

Suddenly, like a revelation, a thought struck Miloš. He reached for the scalpel lying on the table beside him. His hand shook, but he knew with certainty what he had to do. He drew the scalpel’s edge across his own arm, leaving a deep cut on his skin. Pain shot through his body, but he paid it no mind.

This scar would remain with him forever. It would remind him of Emir, of his unfulfilled dream, of his lost life. It would remind him of all those he had failed to save, of all those whose stories remained untold.

It would become his personal map of the war.

Part One

The First Scar

Chapter 1

A Touch of Pain

Aliya adjusted her medical mask as if donning a shield, preparing for a battle — not against physical ailments, but against the invisible wounds that, she knew, ran much deeper. The mask, this silent witness to her work, couldn’t keep out the pungent smell of bleach mixed with the scent of hope and despair that hung in the walls of the rehabilitation center. Outside the window, smudged by autumn rain, drifted the familiar Sarajevo landscape: an endless gray, like a photograph faded with time. The rain, that stubborn city dweller, insistently drummed against the windowsill, beating a steady rhythm — like the heart of the city, still beating even in the hardest of times.

She glanced at the clock. 9:57. Three minutes. Three short, yet eternal minutes before she would enter that room again, where souls stood frozen, awaiting her help. Aliya took a deep breath, trying to quell her anxiety. She remembered the words of an old, wise doctor who always said: “A doctor is not just a profession, it’s a calling. A calling to see pain, to have compassion, but not to drown in it.”

She recalled yesterday’s session with Safiya, who had lost her entire family during the siege. “Doctor,” Safiya had said, “sometimes I feel like I’m going crazy. The war took everything from me, even hope.” Aliya had remained silent then, searching for the right words. What words could restore hope to someone who had lost everything most dear?

Aliya knew that guilt was like a poison, eating away from within. It was like barbed wire, entangling the mind, preventing any move forward. As a wise woman who had survived the war once told her: “Scars remain not only on the body but also on the soul. But the soul, unlike the body, is capable of healing. One just needs to find the right path.”

And so, at exactly 9:59, Aliya opened the door and stepped into the room. Eight people — eight broken lives, eight stories told through eyes and silence. Emir, a young man who had lost a leg, stared at the floor as if trying to find his lost balance there. Safiya, still wrapped in a black headscarf, gazed out the window with unseeing eyes, as if hoping to see her children there. Josip, an old soldier, sat motionless, like a granite monument, silently harboring all the horrors of war.

Aliya took a deep breath, trying to hide the tremor in her voice. She remembered her mentor’s words: “Be a light, Aliya. Even a small candle can dispel the darkness.”

“Good morning,” she said, trying to make her voice sound confident and warm. “I’m glad to see you.”

In response — silence. Only heavy sighs and barely perceptible movements.

“Today we will talk about guilt,” Aliya began, feeling everything tighten inside her. “About how to learn to forgive yourself. As a wise man once said: ‘Forgiveness is not about being released from the past; it is about being released from its power over you.’”

At that moment, the door creaked softly, and Samira, a nurse with a perpetually worried face, peeked in.

“Aliya,” Samira whispered, “Dr. Hasan needs to see you urgently.”

What happened? Everything inside her went cold.

“Okay, I’ll be right there,” Aliya replied. Casting a glance at her patients, she felt that something important was about to happen.

Stepping out of the room, Aliya asked:

“What is it, Samira?”

“Dr. Hasan wants you to speak with a new patient,” Samira stammered. “He thinks he needs your help.”

“Who is it?” Aliya asked anxiously.

“Miloš… The Cartographer of Scars.”

Aliya’s eyebrows shot up in surprise. The Cartographer of Scars? The strange, reclusive old man about whom legends circulated.

“Dr. Hasan thinks he might be able to help this patient,” Samira explained. “But he needs your help to guide him… to steer him a little.”

She nodded:

“Alright, I’ll talk to Dr. Hasan.”

Aliya lingered outside Dr. Hasan’s office door as if before the entrance to a sacred temple. Her heart, like a trapped bird, fluttered somewhere in her throat. She knew that behind this door awaited not just a conversation, but something that could change her life. Dr. Hasan was more than just the chief physician to Aliya; he was a wise mentor who saw in her something she herself had not yet noticed. He was one of the few who had survived the war, lost his family, but had not allowed the darkness to consume him.

Aliya knocked — three short, confident raps. “Come in,” replied Hasan’s quiet but strong voice.

Hasan’s office resembled an old bookstore — tall shelves crammed with books, framed photographs, souvenirs from various countries he had visited while working with “Doctors Without Borders.” And the smell — the smell of old paper, medicine, and something subtly homely.

Hasan sat at his desk, buried in a mountain of papers. His face, usually bright and welcoming, now bore a shadow of worry. War, like a ruthless sculptor, had left its marks on his face — deep wrinkles, sad eyes, gray in his hair. But even through these traces, kindness and wisdom shone through.

“Aliya, glad you stopped by,” Hasan said, rising from his desk. His movements were slow but confident. “Thank you for always responding to my requests.”

“Doctor, is something wrong?” Aliya asked, feeling her anxiety grow.

“We have a new patient, Aliya,” Hasan replied with a heavy sigh. “Ahmed.”

Aliya frowned. The center already had more patients than they could handle. Each one needed attention and care.

“Doctor, you know I’m overloaded,” Aliya said, trying to speak softly. “How can I help?”

“The thing is, Ahmed’s case… is special,” Hasan answered, sitting back down. He picked up a pencil and began nervously twisting it in his fingers. “He’s closed himself off, doesn’t speak, refuses food. We’ve tried every method, but he doesn’t respond. It’s as if he’s buried himself alive.”

Aliya recalled an article she had recently read about psychological aid for war veterans. It mentioned that the most difficult was “petrification syndrome” — a state where a person completely disconnects from the external world, loses interest in life, and stops experiencing emotions.

“And you think I can help him?” Aliya asked, feeling doubtful.

“I believe in you, Aliya,” Hasan answered, looking her straight in the eye. “You have a way with people, you see what is hidden from other eyes. You know how to listen with your heart, and that is the most important thing. You know what they say: ‘The heart sees what the eyes cannot.’”

Aliya felt embarrassed by such high praise. She knew Hasan saw potential in her that she herself had not yet uncovered.

“But there’s something else,” Hasan continued, lowering his voice and leaning forward. “I want you to work with Miloš.”

“With the Cartographer of Scars?” Aliya was surprised, her voice rising involuntarily.

“Yes, with him,” Hasan replied. “I know people say all sorts of things about him. That he’s strange, unsociable, even mad. But I am sure there’s a spark of the divine in him, that he possesses some special gift.”

Aliya remembered the rumors about Miloš. They said he lived on a barge, drew some kind of maps, talked to the scars on veterans’ bodies.

“What does he do?” Aliya asked. “Some kind of shamanism?”

Hasan smiled.

“No, Aliya, he is not a shaman,” Hasan answered. “He is an artist. He sees in scars not just ugly marks, but a story, a tragedy, pain. He tries to capture that story on paper, to create a map that will help a person comprehend their past and move forward.”

Aliya was silent, trying to digest what she had heard. It sounded strange, unusual, but at the same time… intriguing.

“I want you to work together with Miloš,” Hasan continued. “I want you to help him understand Ahmed, to guide him if needed. I believe that together you can break through this wall that separates Ahmed from the world.”

Aliya thought it over. She understood it wouldn’t be easy. Miloš was a man out of this world, requiring a special approach. But on the other hand, it was a chance to try something new, to step beyond the usual treatment methods.

“Alright, Doctor,” said Aliya, feeling a spark of curiosity ignite in her heart. “I agree.”

“Thank you, Aliya,” Hasan replied, leaning back in his chair with relief. “I knew I could count on you.”

He stood up and walked to the window, looking out at the gray Sarajevo landscape.

“War leaves scars, Aliya,” he said quietly. “But our task is to help people find the strength to live on, to not let those scars destroy their lives.”

Aliya walked over to Hasan and placed a hand on his shoulder.

“We will do everything in our power, Doctor,” she said.

Hasan looked at her and smiled. In his eyes, Aliya saw pain, weariness, but also hope.

“I know you will, Aliya,” he said. “I believe in you.”

Aliya nodded and left the office, feeling a resolve growing within her.

Chapter 2

The Taste of Youth, the Scent of Hope

1988. Sarajevo. The summer was unusually hot. It seemed the sun had decided to squeeze all the juice out of the city. The scorching asphalt melted underfoot like soft plasticine, forcing the few pedestrians to hide in the narrow strips of shade cast by the old houses. The evening breeze, which usually brought relief, this time only whipped dust and the dry smell of heated earth through the city.

Sarajevo lived in anticipation — the Winter Olympics were just six years away, and the city was preparing to welcome guests from all over the world. The authorities were building new hotels, repairing roads, and decorating the streets with flowers and flags. Everyone hoped the Olympics would be a new beginning for Sarajevo, that it would show the world its beauty and hospitality, that it would dispel the gloomy shadows of the past and open the way to a bright future.

Miloš remembered how in 1984, when Sarajevo hosted the Winter Olympics, he was just a boy. He remembered the joy that filled the city, the smiles on people’s faces, the flags of different countries fluttering in the wind. He remembered how he and his father went to watch the hockey games and cheered for the Soviet team. “The Olympics are a celebration of peace and friendship,” his father had told him then. And Miloš had believed him.

He stood on the threshold of the Medical Institute, clutching a brand-new student ID in his sweaty palm. His heart pounded in his chest like a trapped bird ready to break free. “Well, that’s it, Miloš,” he said to himself, “now you’re a student. Now you’re a future doctor. Now you’re one of those who will save lives.”

He remembered the conversation with his mother the night before. She had hugged him and said: “Son, be honest, be kind, be fair. And remember, the most important thing is to love people.”

And then he heard the voice of his friend Ivan:

“Hey, Miloš! What are you stuck here for? Scared or something?”

Miloš turned and saw Ivan walking towards him with a broad smile on his face. Ivan was a tall, lanky guy with an open gaze and kind eyes.

“No,” Miloš replied, “just thinking about the future.”

“What future?” Ivan asked, coming up and clapping him on the shoulder. “About how you’re going to save the world?”

“Well, something like that,” Miloš answered, smiling.

“Come on,” Ivan said. “Saving the world is for politicians. We’ll just be treating people.”

“That’s important too,” Miloš replied.

“Of course it is,” Ivan agreed. “But the main thing is to earn good money to buy a nice car and a beautiful wife.”

“You’re always on about the same thing,” Miloš said, laughing.

“So what?” Ivan retorted. “Am I wrong?”

“Maybe you’re right,” Miloš answered. “But for me, the main thing is to help people.”

“Well, help then,” Ivan said. “And I’ll go meet some girls.”

And Ivan, winking at Miloš, headed towards a group of female students standing nearby.

Miloš watched him go and shook his head. Ivan was always like that — cheerful, sociable, amorous. He knew how to get along with everyone and enjoy life.

Miloš was different — more serious, thoughtful, dreamy. He loved to read books, ponder the meaning of life, make plans for the future.

But they were friends, and they respected each other.

Miloš took a deep breath and stepped into the institute building. “Well,” he thought, “let’s see what awaits me in this new world.”

The square in front of the institute was bustling with life, like a boiling cauldron. Students dressed in bright colors, like exotic butterflies after a long winter, fluttered around, creating a colorful, noisy kaleidoscope. Laughter rang in the air like little bells, interrupting snippets of conversation. Someone was passionately arguing about the upcoming lecture by Professor Jovanović, a legend of anatomy, who could talk for hours about the structure of the human body without missing a beat. “They say he has an anatomy textbook instead of a heart,” someone joked, causing an explosion of laughter. Someone was reading a book, immersed in the world of knowledge like a pearl diver in the depths of the ocean. And some just stood arm in arm, enjoying the last minutes of summer warmth and anticipating the start of a new life.

Miloš felt both lost and incredibly happy in this raging sea of youth. He had come to Sarajevo from a small mountain village where life flowed slowly and steadily. Here everything moved at a frantic pace, as if someone had pressed the “fast forward” button. He had dreamed of this day since childhood, since the moment he read a worn-out book about Florence Nightingale, the English nurse who dedicated her life to helping wounded soldiers during the Crimean War. He was struck by her selflessness, her mercy, her faith that even in the most terrible conditions, there was a place for compassion and love. “Mercy is the compass that points the right way in any storm,” he thought, remembering words from the book. But at that moment, it seemed to him that there was no storm in this city, and there wouldn’t be. There would only be light.

He remembered how once, as a boy, he had asked his grandfather, an old paramedic: “Grandad, why did you become a doctor?” His grandfather, puffing on his pipe, had answered: “You see, Miloš, life is like a river. It carries some on its waves, and drowns others. A doctor is someone who extends a hand to those who are drowning.”

Even as a boy, when other kids were kicking a ball in the yard or reading comics, Miloš spent his time in the village library, devouring books about doctors — Hippocrates, the father of medicine, whose principles of healing are still relevant today; Avicenna, the Persian genius who created the “Canon of Medicine,” which was the medical bible for centuries; Nikolai Pirogov, the Russian surgeon who first used anesthesia in field conditions and created an atlas of topographic anatomy. He was fascinated not only by the descriptions of complex operations but also by the stories of the selflessness and heroism of doctors who, risking their lives, saved people during epidemics and wars.

“Can you imagine, Grandad,” he once said, “Pirogov assisted himself during operations! It’s incredible!”

He dreamed of becoming just like them — brave, smart, devoted to his work. He wanted to save lives, ease suffering, give hope to those who had lost it.

“A doctor is not just a craft, Miloš, it’s the art of compassion,” his grandfather, the old paramedic who treated people in a distant mountain village hours from the nearest hospital, loved to say. His grandfather knew the value of medical care, knew that sometimes a kind word said at the right time could heal better than any medicine.

His parents — simple workers from the local sawmill — were prouder of him than ever before. They saw in him hope for a better life, a chance to escape poverty and hopelessness. They had put all their strength into his education, saving on everything — food, clothes, entertainment — just so he could study, buy books, travel to the city for preparatory courses.

“Son, we didn’t get an education ourselves, but we want everything to be different for you,” his mother told him, wiping her tears with a handkerchief.

His father, usually silent and stern, once, seeing him off at the station, put a hand on his shoulder and said: “Son, knowledge is a weapon that no one can take from you. Use it wisely and with honor. And remember: remain human, no matter what.”

These words were etched in his memory for life. Miloš knew he had no right to let his parents down, that he had to justify their hopes, that he had to become who they dreamed he would be.

At that moment, standing on the threshold of the institute, he remembered his grandfather’s and father’s words. He understood that medicine was not just a science; it was a calling. And he was ready to follow that calling to the end.

He took a deep breath, as if filling his lungs with the fresh air of change, and resolutely stepped into the institute building.

Inside, it was pleasantly cool and quiet, as if time flowed differently here. Teachers in snow-white coats strolled leisurely through the corridors, exuding calm and confidence. Classes were going on in the auditoriums; muffled voices, the rustling of pages, the squeak of chalk on a blackboard could be heard. Miloš felt as if he had entered another world — a world of knowledge, science, and wisdom.

“Here they teach you not only to treat but also to think,” he thought, remembering the words of his biology teacher.

He quickly found the schedule and headed to the anatomy auditorium.

The class was taught by Professor Jovanović — an institute legend, an old, strict, but incredibly respected teacher. They said he knew the anatomy of the human body like the back of his hand and could talk for hours about every bone, every muscle, every nerve. “Anatomy is the map of life,” the professor loved to repeat. “To understand a person, you need to know how they are built.”

Miloš, sitting down at an old, worn desk, felt his breath catch. He opened the anatomy textbook, anticipating immersion in this amazing world. Professor Jovanović, a gray-haired man with an aquiline profile and a stern gaze, spoke about the structure of the human body, its incredible complexity and harmony. Miloš listened, holding his breath, afraid to miss a single word. Every sentence, every detail seemed incredibly interesting to him. He felt his brain, like a sponge, absorbing new knowledge.

Anatomy seemed to him not just a science, but a true miracle created by nature itself. How was it possible — such perfection, such coherence! He saw in every organ, every muscle, every nerve not just a set of biological elements, but a true work of art. He imagined how one day he would be able to penetrate this secret, understand all the intricacies and secrets of the human body.

After class, leaving the auditorium, Miloš felt elated. He was burning with desire to share his impressions. In the corridor, filled with the hum of voices and laughter, a short guy with red hair and freckles on his face called out to him.

“Hey, rookie! You from anatomy too?” he asked with a wide smile.

“Yes,” Miloš nodded, “it’s just incredible!”

“Exactly!” the redhead laughed. “I’m Dragan. And you?”

“Miloš.” Miloš extended his hand.

“Great!” Dragan shook his hand. “Come on, I’ll tell you something interesting. By the way, want to join our group? We’ve already got a crew going.”

Miloš gladly agreed. Together they joined a small group of students clustered by the window. There were girls, guys, of different nationalities, from different corners of Yugoslavia.

“So, guys, how’d you like anatomy?” asked a beautiful girl with long black hair who introduced herself as Jasna.

“Amazing!” Miloš exclaimed. “I’m just in awe!”

“Yeah, it’s cool,” Ivan nodded, who had already managed to meet Miloš. “But the most interesting part is the practicals. We’ll start dissecting soon.”

Miloš’s breath caught at these words. Dissecting! He had never seen a corpse, but he wasn’t scared; rather, he was interested.

“Have you already done anything?” he asked.

“Well, we’ve already argued about who’ll cut first,” Dragan laughed. “But of course, everything’s under the professor’s supervision. By the way, Professor Jovanović is a legend! They say he knows the structure of every human organ by heart!”

“Yeah, he’s impressive,” Jasna agreed. “He can even talk about the most boring things in a way that you just listen spellbound.”

They talked for a long time, discussing lectures, teachers, future exams. Miloš felt like part of this company, part of something big and important. He felt a surge of energy, a desire to learn, to know, to move forward. He understood that he had found his place, found like-minded people, found his calling.

He particularly liked Ivan — a tall, lanky guy with an open gaze and a kind smile. Ivan, like Miloš, was from a poor family, and they quickly found common ground, understanding each other without words. They had met on the first day at the institute and had been inseparable ever since.

“So, Miloš,” Ivan asked, slapping his friend on the shoulder as they left the stuffy anatomy auditorium, “how did you like your gateway to the human cosmos today?”

Miloš smiled, his eyes shining with a mixture of delight and reverence.

“The cosmos, Ivan! Nothing less! I had no idea it was all so… perfect. It seemed every fiber, every vessel was part of an incredible symphony.”

The October wind, chilling to the bone, wandered the institute corridors, making students wrap themselves in scarves and hide their hands in their pockets. After the anatomy lecture, which had lasted a long two hours, Miloš and Ivan went outside, breathing in the cool air of freedom.

“You know, Miloš,” Ivan began, adjusting his glasses, which constantly slid down his thin nose, “I was thinking… Do we even understand what we’ve gotten ourselves into?”

Miloš stopped, lighting a cigarette. The smoke, dissolving in the air, left a bitter aftertaste.

“What do you mean?” Miloš asked, exhaling smoke.

“All this… Medicine, doctors, responsibility… Have you read the Hippocratic Oath? It’s just terrifying! ‘I will prescribe regimens for the good of my patients according to my ability and my judgment and never do harm to anyone.’ And what if I can’t? What if I do something wrong? What if someone dies because of me?”

Miloš took a drag on his cigarette, watching the passers-by hurrying about their business. Sarajevo lived its usual life, unaware of the doubts and fears tormenting the hearts of two future doctors.

“Listen, Ivan,” Miloš said, “I understand how you feel. I think about it sometimes too. But if we’re constantly afraid, we won’t be able to do anything. We have to believe in ourselves, study, improve. And remember that we’re not alone. We have friends, we have teachers, we have…” he fell silent, searching for the right word, “…a duty.”

“Duty?” Ivan repeated, skeptically arching an eyebrow. “To whom? To humanity? To the state? Or to our own conscience?”

Miloš smirked.

“Probably to all of that together,” he answered. “You know, my grandfather always said: ‘A doctor is not just a profession, it’s a service. Service to people, service to truth, service to good.’ And I think he was right.”

Ivan fell silent, watching the pigeons flying by. They circled over the square, as if trying to find their place in this chaotic world.

“And you know, Hippocrates,” Ivan suddenly said, “was not only a doctor but also a philosopher? He said that health is harmony between the body, mind, and soul. And that a doctor should treat not only the body but the whole person.”

Miloš nodded.

“Yes, I’ve read about that,” he said. “And I think it’s very important. You can’t treat people like machines that need fixing. You need to see them as individuals, with their feelings, fears, hopes.”

They walked in silence, each lost in their own thoughts. The wind tousled their hair, and a long road to the peaks of medical knowledge lay ahead of them.

“Listen, Miloš,” Ivan broke the silence, “do you know that in the Middle Ages, doctors were called ‘servants of death’? Because they constantly faced death and were often powerless before it.”

Miloš smirked.

“Yes, I know,” he answered. “But I think we should try to be not servants of death, but servants of life. We should fight for every life, no matter how hard it is.”

“And how are we going to do that?” Ivan asked, irony in his voice. “We don’t have a magic wand.”

Miloš stopped and looked at his friend. A fire of determination burned in his eyes.

“We have knowledge, Ivan. We have experience. We have hands and hearts.”

Ivan smiled.

“You’re right, Miloš,” he said. “Well then, shall we go learn to be servants of life?”

Miloš nodded, and they headed to the library, preparing for new trials and new knowledge.

Miloš felt happy. He had found his place in life, found friends, found his calling. He knew that a difficult path full of trials and difficulties lay ahead of him. But he was ready for them.

He dreamed of becoming a good doctor. He wanted to help people. He wanted to make the world a better place. “Who, if not us?” he thought, remembering the words of a song he loved to listen to on the radio.

He didn’t yet know that soon his dreams would be cruelly trampled by war. That he would have to see death, suffering, violence. That he would have to make choices that would haunt him for the rest of his life. That he would lose everything dear to him and be left alone with his pain.

But for now, he was young, full of strength and hope. Sarajevo seemed to him the most beautiful city in the world, and life — an endless adventure.

He was ready for the future.

Chapter 3

A Bridge Across the Abyss

The rain, as if enchanted, wouldn’t let up. It had been pouring over Sarajevo for three days now, turning the streets into muddy rivers and the mood of the citizens into a gray, monotonous palette. Aliya huddled in an old scarf that smelled of dampness, trying to warm up a little. The cold seeped under her skin, making her shiver and think of hot tea.

Today she was to visit the man the city called the Cartographer of Scars. Miloš… Legends swirled around this name, as if he were a character from an old fairy tale. They said he lived on a barge moored to the bank of the Miljacka River and drew maps of human suffering. They said he could see what was hidden from the eyes of ordinary people, that he could read the scars on bodies and souls. “A scar is not just a mark, it’s a story written in blood,” Aliya remembered Dr. Hasan’s words.

The barge, visible in the fog, did look ominous. Rust, like a disease, ate away at its sides, and on the deck lay fragments of old nets, pieces of wood, and other junk collected by the river. It seemed like a ghost from the past, washed ashore into modernity. Aliya shivered. “I wonder what it’s like to live in such a place? Completely cut off from the world,” she thought.

She was a little scared. She had heard that Miloš was unsociable, withdrawn, even a little mad. They said the war had broken him, that he had lost faith in people and in himself. “But even in the most broken person, you can find a spark of hope,” Aliya told herself, remembering her grandmother’s words.

She took a deep breath, gathering her courage, and resolutely headed towards the shaky gangplank leading to the barge. The old boards creaked underfoot, and the wind whistled in her ears, as if warning her against this visit.

Reaching the door of a small superstructure that served as Miloš’s home, Aliya stopped. What should she say? How to start a conversation with a man who had walled himself off from the whole world? “The main thing is to be sincere and respectful,” she decided.

She knocked — quietly but insistently.

Silence reigned inside. All that could be heard was the rain drumming on the roof and the creaking of old furniture somewhere. Aliya knocked again, louder.

Several long minutes passed before the door creaked and opened a crack. Miloš stood on the threshold.

Aliya gasped. She expected to see anyone but this. Before her stood an emaciated, unshaven man with extinguished eyes and deep wrinkles that furrowed his face. He looked much older than his years. His eyes, once probably full of life and enthusiasm, now seemed empty and lifeless. He wore an old, faded T-shirt and dirty pants.

“What do you want?” he asked hoarsely, as if spitting out the words.

Aliya tried not to show her excitement.

“Hello, Miloš,” she said, trying to speak softly and friendly. “My name is Aliya, I’m a psychologist from the rehabilitation center. Dr. Hasan…”

“I know,” Miloš interrupted her, “what does he want from me? Another medal for compassion? Or does he want me to draw him a map of his hemorrhoids?”

Aliya frowned. She hadn’t expected such a rude reception.

“Dr. Hasan thinks you can help one of our patients,” she said, trying to remain calm. “He thinks your… talent… could be useful.”

Miloš smirked, and a spark of sarcasm flashed in his eyes.

“My ‘talent’? ” he repeated. “Are you serious? I haven’t been able to help anyone for a long time. I need help myself. And by the way, Dr. Hasan knows that perfectly well.”

“I know it’s hard for you,” Aliya said, “but I believe you can help this man. He’s suffering terribly. He’s lost everything dear to him. And he needs your help to find the strength to live on.”

Miloš looked at Aliya with a long, piercing gaze. She felt his eyes, like scanners, penetrating the very depths of her soul.

“Who is he?” Miloš asked after a short silence.

“His name is Ahmed,” Aliya answered. “He’s a war veteran. He lost his family, his home, his hope in the war. He can’t forget what he saw. He can’t move on. He’s locked in his past, and he needs help to break out of that prison.”

Miloš turned away from Aliya, looking at the rain drumming on the barge’s rusty roof. The raindrops, streaming down the glass, resembled tears.

“And what do you want from me?” he asked finally, without turning to her. “To draw him a map of his hell? To show him what his personal abyss looks like?”

“I want you to talk to him,” Aliya answered, trying to speak sincerely and convincingly. “To try to understand his pain. To help him find the strength to live on, no matter what.”

Miloš sighed and looked at Aliya with a long, heavy gaze.

“I don’t know if I can do that,” he said. “I’ve long forgotten how to talk to people. I’ve forgotten how to believe. I’ve forgotten how to hope.”

Aliya stepped closer to him and looked him straight in the eyes.

“I believe in you, Miloš,” she said. “I know you can. You are the Cartographer of Scars. You know how to see what others don’t. You know how to touch the most intimate corners of the human soul.”

Miloš was silent, as if struggling with himself. Aliya felt an intense battle going on inside him.

“Alright,” he said at last, “I’ll try. But I promise nothing. And if I fail, don’t blame me.”

“‘Try’? ” Aliya repeated, and her voice sounded irritated. She had come a long way through the rain and fog, spent a lot of time, and now all she heard in response was a pathetic “try”?

Miloš seemed not to notice her tone. He remained impassive, like a stone statue.

“What do you want to hear?” he asked, shrugging. “The Hippocratic Oath in reverse? A promise to raise the dead? I’m not God, Aliya. I’m just… an old soldier trying to find some meaning in this mad world. And yes, I will ‘try’ to do what I can. But there are no guarantees. There are few guarantees in life, you know.”

Aliya clenched her fists, trying to hold back her anger. She understood that Miloš was suffering too, that he also carried a heavy burden of the past. But she needed his help. She needed him to at least try to help Ahmed.

“Ahmed…” she began, lowering her voice. “He’s lost, Miloš. He’s lost his bearings. He doesn’t know how to live on. He thinks his life is over. And I… I just want to give him hope. I want him to believe in himself again.”

Miloš was silent, looking out the window. The rain continued to drum on the glass, as if counting the seconds of passing life.

“Okay,” he said finally, “come in. Tell me about him. Maybe I can help somehow. But don’t expect miracles. There are no miracles. There’s only pain. And you have to learn to live with that pain.”

He stepped aside, letting Aliya into the room.

Entering inside, Aliya felt as if she had stepped into another world. The room was small, dark, and uncomfortable. The only source of light was a desk lamp with a shade covered by an old newspaper. The walls were hung with maps, drawings, and photographs. Chaos reigned on the table — pencils, paints, brushes, and other art supplies. In the corner stood an old sofa, piled with books and papers. The air smelled of tobacco, dampness, and some elusive sadness.

“Pain lives here,” Aliya thought, looking around.

Miloš sat on the sofa, gesturing for her to sit next to him. She sat down, trying not to touch the dusty upholstery.

“Well, tell me,” Miloš said, “what kind of bird is this Ahmed of yours? What happened to him?”

Aliya began her story. She talked about Ahmed’s pre-war life, his family, his dreams and hopes. She talked about how the war had destroyed all that, how he had lost his loved ones, how he had seen death and violence. She talked about how he had returned from the war broken and empty, how he had withdrawn into himself and stopped communicating with people.

Miloš listened silently, without interrupting. His gaze was fixed on Aliya’s face, as if he were trying to read the whole truth about Ahmed in her eyes. Aliya felt that he saw right through her, that he understood her better than she understood herself.

She told him how Ahmed suffered from nightmares, outbursts of anger, feelings of guilt and despair. She told him how he couldn’t find his place in life, how he felt like a stranger and unwanted.

“He feels guilty for being alive,” Aliya said, “he thinks he should have died with his loved ones. It’s eating him up inside.”

Miloš closed his eyes, as if trying to shut out these words.

“I know how he feels,” he said, “I went through it myself. Survivor’s guilt is the most terrible of all scars. It’s not visible on the outside, but it eats away at the soul from within, like acid.”

Aliya looked at Miloš with sympathy. She understood that it was hard for him to remember the past, that every one of her phrases echoed with pain in his heart.

“And what do you think?” Aliya asked. “Can you help him?”

Miloš opened his eyes and looked at Aliya with a long, piercing gaze.

“I don’t know,” he said. “I’ll try. But I promise nothing. I can’t bring back his family, I can’t erase the horrors of war from his memory. But I can try to help him find the strength to live on. As an old sage once said: ‘The past is an anchor that drags us to the bottom. But the past can also be a sail, if we learn to manage it properly.’”

Aliya nodded.

“That’s all I’m asking,” she said. “Just try.”

Miloš got up from the sofa and walked over to the table. He picked up a pencil and a blank sheet of paper.

“Tell me about his scars,” he said, “where are they? What do they look like? What does he say about them?”

Aliya frowned.

“Scars?” she repeated. “He has no scars. He wasn’t wounded in the war.”

Miloš smirked, and a shadow of sadness flashed in his eyes.

“You’re wrong, Aliya,” he said. “Every person who has survived a war has scars. It’s just that not all of them are visible on the outside.”

Aliya felt a wave of protest rise inside her. “I’m sure he has no scars!” she repeated, trying to sound confident, though inside everything tightened with a strange foreboding. “He wasn’t on the front lines, he was…”

Miloš cut her off sharply, and his voice held unconcealed bitterness. “And do you know what the front line is, Aliya? Do you think it’s only trenches and bullets? The front line is where the world collapses. Where hope dies. Where yesterday’s friends become enemies. And believe me, Aliya, that front line runs through the heart of everyone who has survived a war. Everyone has scars. It’s just that some are on the body, and others are in the soul. And the latter are the most terrible.”

He lowered his gaze to the blank sheet of paper, as if preparing to summon his art. “You know what old soldiers say? ‘The bullet is a fool, the bayonet is a fine fellow. But the worst wound is the one you inflict on yourself.’ And it’s true, Aliya. Self-destruction is what kills people after the war.”

Miloš raised his head and looked at Aliya with his piercing eyes, as if looking into her very soul. “Tell me about his eyes,” he asked, softening his tone. “What do you see in them? A reflection of the past? Emptiness? Or a glimmer of hope? Tell me about his silence. What does it hide? Pain? Fear? Or indifference to everything? Tell me everything you know about this man, Aliya. Because I need to see him. I need to feel his pain. I need to understand how to help him.”

Aliya fell silent, trying to rethink everything she had heard. She was used to thinking in scientific categories, relying on facts and evidence. But Miloš was talking about something else — about something that couldn’t be measured, weighed, or seen under a microscope. He was talking about the human soul.

“He…” Aliya began, stammering, “he stares into nothingness. There’s no fire in his eyes. No life. Only… a kind of universal sadness. As if he’s seen all the most terrible things in this world. And it broke him.”

Miloš nodded, as if confirming her words.

“His silence…” Aliya continued, “it’s oppressive. It’s deafening. He hardly speaks. Only sometimes, in his sleep, he screams. He says names… But I can’t make out whose.”

Miloš quickly sketched something on the paper, as if trying to capture her words, her emotions, her impressions.

“And what does he feel?” Miloš asked, not looking up from the drawing.

Aliya sighed, remembering her few conversations with Ahmed.

“He feels guilt,” she said, “he blames himself for surviving. He thinks he should have died with his loved ones. And also… he feels fear. Fear of the future. Fear that the war might repeat itself.”

Miloš put down the pencil and looked at Aliya.

“And what does he want?” he asked. “What does he dream about?”

Aliya thought. She knew that Ahmed no longer dreamed of anything. His dreams had died with his family. But something must have remained? Some hope? Some desire?

“He wants peace,” she said finally. “He wants to be left alone. To not be touched. To just… fall asleep and not wake up.”

Miloš closed his eyes and rubbed the bridge of his nose.

“Peace…” he whispered. “The greatest luxury in this world. And the most unattainable.”

He picked up the pencil again and began to quickly sketch something on the paper. Aliya watched him, holding her breath. She felt that Miloš was approaching the answer, that he was about to understand how to help Ahmed.

“Where is he now?” Miloš asked, not looking up from the drawing. “Where can I find him?”

Aliya, barely suppressing her excitement, said:

“He’s at our center now, a small rehabilitation center for veterans, a few kilometers from Sarajevo. A quiet, secluded place… We try to create an atmosphere of peace and safety there. As much as possible, of course.”

Miloš didn’t seem to be listening to her. He continued to study the drawing on the sheet of paper intently, as if searching for answers in it.

“Safety…” he muttered, more to himself than to her. “Do you really believe in that, Aliya? In safety? After all we’ve seen?”

He raised his eyes and looked at her with such despair that Aliya involuntarily shivered.

“You know,” Miloš continued, “there’s an old saying: ‘You can’t escape your fate, even if you hide at the bottom of a well.’ And it’s true, Aliya. You can’t run from your past. It will always pursue you, like a shadow. And no safety will help.”

Aliya wanted to object, but Miloš didn’t let her get a word in.

“And do you know what the most dangerous place in the world is?” he asked, and strange notes sounded in his voice. “Not the battlefield. Not a prison. Not a psychiatric clinic. The most dangerous place is human memory. That’s where everything we try to forget is stored. All our fears, our sins, our most terrible nightmares. And sooner or later they break out. And then… then beware!”

Aliya felt a chill run down her spine. Miloš spoke so convincingly, so sincerely, that she became truly afraid.

“I want to talk to him,” Miloš said, putting the drawing aside. His eyes burned with a strange fire, a mixture of curiosity, compassion, and… some inconsolable sadness.

Aliya gasped in surprise.

“Now?” she repeated. “But… I don’t know… I’m not sure he’s ready. He’s very withdrawn, very distrustful. He needs time to get used to new people.”

Miloš shook his head.

“We have no time, Aliya,” he said. “Time is our main enemy. The longer we wait, the deeper he sinks into his pain. And the harder it will be to help him.”

Aliya hesitated. She understood that Miloš was right. But she was also afraid of scaring Ahmed away, of pushing him away from her.

“I’ll call the center,” she said, “warn them. But I can’t promise anything. If he refuses to talk to you, I can’t force him.”

Miloš smirked, and a shadow of fatigue flashed in his eyes.

“I’m not asking you to, Aliya,” he said. “I respect freedom of choice. Every person has a right to their pain. And to their own path to healing.”

Miloš got up from the sofa and headed for the door.

“Let’s go,” he said. “Let’s not waste time.”

Aliya looked at him in surprise. She expected to see a broken, disappointed man who had long given up on everything. But instead, she saw a strong, determined man ready to fight for someone else’s soul.

“Where are we going?” Aliya asked, getting up from the sofa.

“To Ahmed,” Miloš answered, opening the door. “We’re going to draw his map.”

Aliya, barely containing her growing impatience, took out her phone. The connection to the rehabilitation center was the only bridge connecting her to Ahmed, and she was afraid this bridge could collapse at any moment. The rain outside seemed to echo her anxieties, drumming furiously against the glass and creating an oppressive atmosphere.

Miloš, meanwhile, froze by the window like a statue carved from gray stone. His gaze was fixed somewhere in the distance, beyond the curtain of rain, and Aliya couldn’t understand what he was thinking about. Perhaps he was remembering his own past, his own scars, his own losses.

She stepped out into the barge’s narrow corridor, trying to speak as quietly as possible so as not to disturb Miloš. But her voice still trembled with excitement.

“Hello, this is Aliya, the psychologist,” she said into the receiver, barely restraining the tremor in her voice. “I wanted to warn you that we’ll be arriving soon with a guest…”

Silence fell on the other end of the line. Aliya knew that the doctor on duty, an old soldier named Branko, was listening warily to her every word.

“What guest?” Branko asked finally, his voice dry and detached.

“With Miloš,” Aliya answered, mentally preparing for a storm. “You’ve probably heard of him… The Cartographer of Scars.”

A long pause followed, during which Aliya heard only the noise of the rain and her own racing heartbeat.

“Miloš…” Branko repeated, as if tasting the name. “Yes, I’ve heard of him. They say he sees things others don’t. But I’m not sure Ahmed needs these… visions right now.”

Aliya sighed. She knew Branko was skeptical of all these psychological tricks. He believed only in medicine, rest, and hard work.

“Branko, please understand,” Aliya began, trying to sound convincing. “I think Miloš is Ahmed’s last chance. He’s stuck in his past, he can’t move forward. And Miloš… he knows how to draw maps that help people find their way out of the labyrinth of memory.”

Branko was silent for a moment longer, as if weighing all the pros and cons.

“You know, Aliya,” he said finally, “I don’t understand all this psychology of yours. But I see that you sincerely want to help Ahmed. So… I won’t stand in your way. But I can’t guarantee he’ll want to talk to you. Lately, he’s become completely wild. Doesn’t let anyone near him.”

Aliya felt a weight lift from her shoulders.

“Thank you, Branko,” she said sincerely. “We’ll be there in an hour.”

“Alright,” Branko replied. “I’ll warn the nurses.”

Aliya hung up and took a deep breath. The conversation with Branko had taken a lot out of her.

She returned to the room where Miloš still stood by the window, motionless as a statue.

“Well?” he asked without turning around. His voice sounded hollow and tired.

Aliya tried to hide her excitement.

“They’ve agreed to see us,” she said, “but… they’re not thrilled about the idea.”

Miloš smirked, and a shadow of irony flashed in his eyes.

“Since when has anyone been thrilled about the idea of digging around in someone else’s dirt?” he muttered. “It doesn’t matter, Aliya. The main thing is the chance. What we do with it is another question.”

Aliya nodded, feeling anxiety growing inside her.

“Let’s go,” said Miloš, heading for the door. “Let’s go draw his map.”

Stepping onto the rain-slicked planks of the gangway, Aliya took one last look back at the barge. It really did look pitiful and abandoned, like a ghost ship stuck between two worlds.

Inside Aliya’s old Golf, it smelled of dampness and cheap coffee. Miloš silently settled into the passenger seat, as if unwilling to break the reigning silence. Aliya started the engine, and the car shuddered into motion. The wipers screeched as they pushed streams of water across the windshield, but visibility remained terrible.

The road wound through the hills like a snake, and Aliya felt the tension in the car growing with every kilometer. She tried to concentrate on driving, but her thoughts kept returning to Ahmed and the impending meeting.

“Do you often work with patients like this?” Miloš asked suddenly, breaking the silence. His voice sounded hollow and detached.

Aliya started and threw a quick glance at Miloš. He was looking out the window, his face like carved stone.

“You mean… with veterans?” Aliya asked, trying to stay calm.

Miloš nodded without taking his eyes off the landscape outside.

“Yes. With those who came back from the war… broken, wounded, having lost faith in everything. How do you cope with them? What do you tell them?”

Aliya thought, trying to find the right words. She knew Miloš expected more from her than just a formal answer.

“I try to listen to them,” Aliya said finally. “Just listen. Give them a chance to talk, to pour out their pain. Not to judge, not to advise, but just to be there. And also… I try to remind them that they are not alone, that there are people who understand them and are ready to help them.”

Miloš smirked, and a shadow of sarcasm flashed in his eyes.

“‘Not alone’? ” he repeated. “Is anyone in this world truly not alone?”

Aliya felt a prick of irritation. She didn’t like this cynical tone, this constant mockery of everything.

“I believe that people can help each other,” she said, trying to remain calm. “I believe in the power of compassion, in the power of human connection.”

Miloš didn’t answer. He continued to look out the window, as if not noticing her or her words.

“And what do you tell them when they ask why they should go on living?” Miloš asked after some time.

Aliya sighed. This was the most difficult question her patients asked.

“I don’t know,” she answered honestly. “I can’t tell them why to go on living. Everyone must decide that for themselves. But I can help them find that answer. I can help them find the strength to keep fighting.”

Miloš looked at her with a strange expression.

“And you really believe that?” he asked.

Aliya looked him straight in the eye.

“Yes, I do,” she answered. “Otherwise I wouldn’t be doing this work.”

Miloš was silent, as if pondering her words.

Silence hung in the car, broken only by the noise of the rain and the sound of the engine. Aliya felt the tension between them growing with every minute. What awaited them ahead? Could Miloš help Ahmed? And what would happen to them themselves when they faced his pain, his despair, his… scars?

Feeling his intense gaze on her, Aliya involuntarily shivered and gripped the steering wheel tighter.

“Oh, that’s right, I completely forgot I can’t stand smoking in the car,” flashed through her mind. But she said nothing aloud. It felt like now was not the time for remarks. Miloš seemed lost, as if he had wandered into a labyrinth of his own thoughts.

He coughed awkwardly and, lowering the window, shook the ash outside. A gust of cold, damp air, mixed with the smell of wet earth, immediately invaded the cabin.

“And why is it always like this with me: if something can go wrong, it definitely will?” Aliya thought with annoyance, but then checked herself. She couldn’t give in to negative emotions. Now she needed to focus on the main thing.

The road was getting worse and worse. What had recently seemed like just uneven asphalt had turned into a real obstacle course. The car shook and jolted on every bump, and Aliya felt her hands going numb.

“Much further?” Miloš grumbled, exhaling another plume of smoke.

Aliya took a quick look at the navigator.

“About three kilometers,” she answered, trying to keep her tone calm. “We’ll be on the highway soon, it should be better there.”

Miloš was silent. It was clear he was impatient to get there. Aliya felt the tension building in him, like before a jump into icy water.

“You know,” Miloš said suddenly after a long silence, “my grandfather always said: ‘The most reliable way to forget your own problems is to help another person.’ But what do you do when your problems are yourself?”

Aliya sighed. She knew what Miloš meant. Often, veterans suffered not so much from physical wounds as from the mental trauma that gave them no peace.

“You need to learn to live with your scars,” Aliya said, trying to speak as softly and persuasively as possible. “Not to hide them, not to be ashamed of them, but to accept them as part of yourself. And to remember that they are proof that you survived. That you coped.”

Miloš smirked, and a shadow of irony flashed in his eyes.

“Easy to say,” he muttered. “You try it. Try living with memories that haunt you every night. Try to forget the faces of those you lost.”

Aliya fell silent. She didn’t know what to say. She understood that she couldn’t imagine the full depth of his pain.

Suddenly the car reached the highway, and the jolting stopped. Aliya sighed with relief and increased her speed slightly.

Soon the gates of the rehabilitation center appeared ahead. It was a small complex of buildings surrounded by a high fence and dense forest. The place seemed quiet and secluded, as if cut off from the rest of the world.

Aliya stopped the car in front of the gates and pressed the intercom button. A few seconds later, the guard’s voice came through the speaker.

“Hello,” said Aliya. “This is Aliya, the psychologist. I arranged a meeting with Ahmed.”

“Wait,” replied the guard.

The gates slowly opened, and Aliya drove onto the grounds.

She parked the car in a small lot in front of the main building and turned off the engine. A tense silence hung in the cabin.

“Well, we’re here?” asked Miloš, looking at the center’s building. His voice held a strange mix of excitement and fear.

Aliya nodded, feeling anxiety growing inside her.

“Yes,” she answered. “We’re here.”

Turning off the engine, Aliya closed her eyes for a moment. The difficult day was drawing to a close, but the hardest part, it seemed to her, was still ahead. The silence in the car pressed on her no less than the noise of the rain outside.

She looked at Miloš, and her heart constricted with pity. He sat motionless, as if petrified, and looked at the rehabilitation center building with a strange expression. It seemed he saw not just the shabby walls and dim windows, but something much greater — something known only to him.

“I wonder what he’s feeling right now?” Aliya thought. “Fear? Excitement? Or just fatigue from all this nightmare he constantly has to see?”

“Well, we’re here?” she said, trying to put some cheer into her voice.

Miloš slowly nodded, as if coming out of a trance. “Yes,” he muttered, “we’re here… To a place where pain becomes commonplace.”

Getting out of the car, Aliya felt a gust of cold wind that cut to the bone. She buttoned her jacket and pulled up her hood, trying to warm up.

Together with Miloš, they headed for the main entrance to the building. Aliya felt her heart pounding wildly in her chest. She was scared, excited, and… curious. She didn’t know what awaited them behind those doors, but she felt that their lives would never be the same again.

On the porch, they were met by the doctor on duty, Branko — a tall, broad-shouldered man with a stern look and gray hair. He looked like a true veteran, tired of life and human suffering.

“Hello, Aliya,” Branko said, shaking her hand. “Hello, Miloš. Glad you made it. The weather today — couldn’t be worse.”

“Hello, Branko,” Aliya answered, trying to smile. “Thank you for making time for us.”

Branko nodded and turned his gaze to Miloš. “I hope you don’t disappoint me,” he said, a slight threat in his voice. “Ahmed needs help. He’s a good guy, but… broken. The war has sucked the life out of him.”

Miloš said nothing, only nodded slightly in agreement. Aliya felt a spark of tension pass between the two men.

“Alright,” said Branko, “let’s not stand on the doorstep. Come on, I’ll take you to Ahmed. He’s in his room, as always.”

They went inside the building. The spacious lobby was warm and cozy, but Aliya still felt a kind of oppressive atmosphere. The walls were painted a dull beige, worn linoleum lay on the floor, and the air smelled of medicine and bleach.

They walked down a long corridor, past doors with nameplates. Aliya saw people with extinguished, indifferent looks peeking out from some of the rooms. They looked at them with curiosity and some hidden hope.

“Here,” Branko said, stopping at one of the doors. “This is his room.”

He knocked on the door, but there was no answer.

“Ahmed, it’s Branko,” he said, raising his voice. “I’m not alone. Aliya and… Miloš are with me. They want to talk to you.”

Silence. Aliya felt disappointment growing inside her. She was afraid all her efforts had been in vain, that Ahmed simply didn’t want to see anyone.

“Maybe he’s asleep?” Aliya suggested, trying to maintain optimism.

Branko shrugged. “Maybe,” he answered. “Or maybe he just doesn’t want to let us into his world. He hasn’t let anyone near him for a long time.”

Miloš was silent, as if not taking part in the conversation. He stood to the side, slightly apart from them. But suddenly, unexpectedly for everyone, he took a step forward.

“Ahmed,” Miloš said, addressing the door. His voice was quiet but firm and confident. “I know it’s hard for you right now. I know what you’ve been through. I know what you feel… I know what war is. But I’m here to help you. Open the door.”

Silence fell behind the door. Aliya and Branko held their breath, waiting for an answer.

And suddenly… the door slowly, with a creak, opened.

Chapter 4

The Ashes of Hope

Sarajevo, Spring 1992. Just yesterday, it seemed life was in full bloom: the air was filled with the scent of flowering chestnuts, the rhythms of Goran Bregović drifted from open café windows, and couples strolled hand in hand through the streets, making plans for the future. An atmosphere of hope and carefree joy hung in the air.

But everything changed in an instant. As if at the snap of fingers, the rainbow-colored picture of the world crumbled to dust. Instead of music — the wail of air raid sirens, tearing the silence to shreds. Instead of fragrant flowers — the acrid smoke of fires shrouding the horizon. Instead of ringing laughter — the quiet whisper of prayers and the loud cries of mothers who had lost their children. War fell upon the city suddenly, mercilessly, and ruthlessly, like a enraged beast ready to tear its victim apart.

The news repeated the same thing: “The situation is under control. Our troops are putting up fierce resistance to the enemy. We ask you to remain calm and not panic.” But no one believed these lies anymore. People knew the truth — the city was surrounded, and there was almost no hope of rescue.

On the streets, like mushrooms after rain, checkpoints and barricades sprang up, built from sandbags and brick fragments. Soldiers with rifles at the ready patrolled the streets, looking for the enemy. At night, the city plunged into pitch darkness, broken only by flashes of explosions and tracer bullets.

All sorts of rumors circulated in the city. They said Serbian snipers were shooting at children and pregnant women. They said marauders were operating in the city, robbing and killing civilians. They said the UN was going to send peacekeeping troops, but it never happened.

Huge lines formed outside bakeries and shops for bread and water. Prices skyrocketed, and many people were starving. Speculation flourished in the markets, and a piece of bread cost a fortune.

In the evenings, gathering around the few working radios, people tried to learn any news. Announcers read lists of the dead and missing, and many recognized the names of their relatives and loved ones in these lists.

An atmosphere of fear, despair, and hopelessness reigned in the city. People understood that their lives had changed forever and that they faced difficult trials.

During this grim time, Miloš, like many other students, received a draft notice from the military commissariat. He was to report to the assembly point and go to the front.

Miloš understood what awaited him. He knew that war was not a romantic adventure but dirt, blood, and death. But he also understood that he couldn’t stand aside. He had to defend his city, his family, his friends.

The night before leaving for the front, Miloš couldn’t sleep. He lay in bed thinking about what lay ahead. He remembered his former life, his dreams, his hopes. He understood that he might never see his loved ones again, never hear music in a café, never smell the flowering chestnuts.

His grandfather’s words echoed in his head: “War is a test of humanity. And only those who pass it are worthy of being called human.”

Miloš understood that he was about to face this test. And he had to pass it at any cost.

Miloš, yesterday’s medical student whose idols were not generals but great surgeons like Nikolai Pirogov, who dreamed of a quiet, peaceful life dedicated to saving people, had overnight become a military doctor. He, along with other senior students, was mobilized in the first days of the war. No final exams, no solemn speeches, no diplomas. Instead — a dirty military uniform, a Kalashnikov, and orders to report to a field hospital set up in the basement of an old, half-destroyed school on the very outskirts of Sarajevo.

On the way to the assembly point, Miloš remembered the words of his anatomy professor, an old, grumpy but very talented doctor: “Medicine is not just a science, it’s an art. The art of compassion, the art of healing, the art of prolonging life.” Back then, these words seemed like a beautiful phrase to him, but now he understood the deep meaning within them.

Chaos and confusion reigned at the assembly point. Hundreds of young guys, just like him, scared and confused, crowded into a cramped room, awaiting their fate. Some smoked silently, some read prayers, some desperately said goodbye to relatives and loved ones.

Miloš, standing in line to receive a weapon, overheard a snippet of conversation between two soldiers.

“They say the Serbs have gone completely wild,” one of them said. “They shoot at anything that moves. Spare no one.”

“To hell with them,” answered the other. “We’ll show them! We’ll stand for our land to the last!”

Miloš shivered. He was scared. He had never held a weapon before. He didn’t know how to kill. He wanted to heal, not to fight.

He remembered his father saying: “War is always a tragedy. And it doesn’t matter who’s right and who’s wrong. In war, it’s always the innocent who suffer.”

Miloš had barely crossed the threshold of the field hospital, located in the damp, mold-smelling basement of a former school, when his senses were assaulted by a suffocating mixture of smells: bleach, masking the stench of rotting flesh; blood, saturating every centimeter of space; and medications, meant to somehow ease the suffering. He mechanically recalled lectures on desmurgy (the art of bandaging), where the professor, as if foreseeing the future, had said: “Bandages and cotton are your main allies in the fight for a soldier’s life.”

In the chaotic cacophony of groans, cries, and incoherent pleas for help, he discerned someone’s muffled sobs. Suddenly, like a whirlwind, Jasmina rushed up to him — a young nurse with a blood-smeared face and disheveled hair, her eyes filled with primal terror. Her fragile figure seemed utterly defensible in this kingdom of death.

“Doctor! Please, help!” she exclaimed, grabbing Miloš by the sleeve of his dirty gown. Her fingers dug into the fabric convulsively, as if he were her last hope. “We have an operation… Urgent! Shrapnel… Very young…”

Miloš, as if snapping out of a stupor, followed Jasmina into the makeshift operating room — a tiny room lit only by a single lightbulb hanging from the ceiling on a thin wire. In this meager light, people’s faces seemed pale and haggard, as if devoid of life.

In the center of the room, on an old, rust-covered table, lay a soldier — just a boy, no more than eighteen years old. His face was covered in blood, and his body twitched convulsively. Damir, an experienced surgeon nicknamed “God’s Scalpel” in the hospital for his incredible skill and ability to save even the most hopeless patients, was bent over him.

“Miloš, brother, thank God you’re here!” Damir exclaimed without looking up from his work. His voice sounded tired but confident. “Need help! Shrapnel wound to the abdomen. Liver and spleen damaged. Heavy bleeding. Time is not on our side!”

Miloš, suppressing a wave of nausea, put on a gown, mask, and gloves with trembling hands, trying not to think about what he was about to see. A quote from Hippocrates surfaced in his mind: “A physician must have the eye of an eagle, the heart of a lion, and the hands of a woman.”

“What needs to be done?” asked Miloš, trying to sound calm and confident.

“Hold the retractor!” Damir commanded, pointing to the instrument. “Need to widen the wound so I can reach the liver. Carefully, don’t damage the nerves!”

Miloš, gathering all his willpower, followed Damir’s instruction. The wound was horrific — blood oozed from it, serous fluid leaked out, and torn tissues of internal organs were visible. He felt sick, but he forced himself to look.

“Pressure’s dropping!” Jasmina panicked, watching the monitor. “Thready pulse!”

“Adrenaline! Cordiamine!” Damir commanded, not stopping his work. “And someone, notify the blood bank! We urgently need a transfusion!”

Jasmina, wound up like a spring, carried out all of Damir’s orders. She worked quickly and precisely, like a robot programmed to save lives.

Miloš, watching her actions, thought that war was not only shooting and explosions but also exhausting labor requiring immense strain of strength and nerves.

The operation lasted several hours. Damir, without straightening his back, methodically sutured torn organs, tied off bleeding vessels, and removed shrapnel. Miloš, despite fatigue and fear, continued to assist him, following his every word.

At some point, Miloš caught the soldier’s gaze. In his eyes, he saw not pain and despair, but a strange resignation, as if he had already said goodbye to life. Miloš felt unbearably sorry for this young guy, forced to die far from home, from family, from his beloved girl.

He remembered his mother, seeing him off to war, saying: “The main thing is to remain human. Don’t become hardened. Don’t lose faith in goodness.” Miloš understood that now, more than ever, he needed to remember these words.

“Done,” said Damir, leaning back in his chair and wiping sweat from his forehead. “Sutured… How is he?”

Jasmina bent over the soldier, feeling his pulse. “Weak, but there,” she answered. “Pressure is slowly rising.”

Miloš sighed with relief. “Will he survive?” he asked, looking at the soldier’s face.

Damir looked at him with sadness. “I don’t know, Miloš,” he answered. “We did everything we could. The rest is in God’s hands.”

Jasmina touched the soldier’s cheek and whispered: “Hang on, dear. We’re with you. You’re strong, you’ll make it.”

Miloš, looking at them, felt a new hope born in his soul. He understood that even in this utter hell, there was a place for mercy, for compassion, for love.

Finishing the operation, Miloš stepped back from the table, feeling his knees treacherously buckling. His head rang, his vision swam. He removed the bloodied gloves, feeling the sticky moisture on his hands, and mechanically threw them into the waste bin. The operation had been unsuccessful. Despite all efforts, the soldier had died right on the operating table. Damir’s last words, sounding like a verdict: “Sorry, kid, we did all we could…” echoed in his head.

Leaving the operating room, Miloš felt as if he had entered a vacuum. The sounds around him muffled, the colors faded. He walked down the corridor as if in a dream, seeing and hearing nothing around him. Fragments of phrases, images of the torn body, the soldier’s dying gaze swirled in his head.

That night, he had seen a person die for the first time. A young soldier, just a boy, with broken legs and a torn stomach. Miloš had done everything he could to save him, but it was too late. The soldier died in his arms, looking at him with eyes full of pain and despair.

Miloš felt the world crumbling around him. He fell to his knees and cried. He cried from helplessness, from pity, from grief. He couldn’t understand how it was possible — for people to kill each other, for the innocent to suffer and die.

“Don’t cry, doctor,” he heard a quiet voice above him.

It was Jasmina. She knelt beside him and gently ran her hand through his hair.

“War is death,” she said. “You have to get used to it. Otherwise, you won’t survive.”

Miloš looked at her with tear-filled eyes, full of pain and despair.

“I can’t get used to death,” he whispered. “I don’t want to get used to death… I want to save people, not watch them die…”

Jasmina hugged him and held him close.

“You’re doing everything you can,” she said. “And that’s the most important thing. You’re here, you’re helping them, you’re easing their suffering. And that’s already a lot.”

That night, Miloš understood that his life had changed forever. He was no longer that naive student who dreamed of a surgical career. He had become a military doctor, a witness to the horrors of war, a man who had lost faith in peace and justice. He had seen hell with his own eyes, and that hell had left its mark on his soul forever.

Leaning against the wall, trying to stop the trembling in his hands, Miloš heard the voices of Damir and Jasmina fading far down the corridor. He felt nauseous, not from the blood, but from the helplessness. The death of the soldier, whose name he hadn’t even had time to learn, had turned him inside out, exposing his utter powerlessness in the face of war. Miloš remembered how the guy had convulsively squeezed his hand, and how his gaze had gradually dimmed.

The words of the old pathologist, Professor Knežević, who repeated in every class, came to mind: “We doctors only postpone the inevitable. Death is a part of life, and it must be treated with respect, but without fear.” But here, in this cursed basement, the professor’s words seemed like a cynical lie.

Pushing off from the wall, Miloš wandered down the corridor, hoping to find a secluded place to pull himself together. Some liquid squelched under his feet, probably blood mixed with water. In the wards, the wounded groaned, calling for nurses. The smell of carbolic acid, meant to kill germs, couldn’t overpower the stench of pus and decaying flesh.

Miloš entered an empty dressing room and closed the door behind him. The room was lit by a dim bulb casting strange shadows on the walls. Bloody bandages, syringes, and used ampules lay scattered on the table. Miloš went to the window and opened it, letting in a stream of fresh air. It was raining outside, as if mourning the dead.

He leaned on the windowsill and closed his eyes, trying to stop the trembling in his hands. The face of the dead soldier, his frightened gaze, his convulsively squeezing hand stood before his eyes.

Miloš felt like a fool. He had naively believed he could save lives, ease suffering. He didn’t understand that war was more than just wounds and illnesses. It was destruction, chaos, despair.

His hands trembled again. He took a cigarette from his pocket and lit it, taking greedy drags. The nicotine calmed his nerves a little.

He remembered Jasmina’s words: “Miloš, the most important thing is to remain human. Don’t let the war break you.” But how to remain human when there’s only death and destruction around you? How to keep faith in goodness when evil triumphs everywhere?

He heard footsteps outside the door and immediately stubbed out the cigarette, hiding the butt in his pocket. The door opened, and Jasmina entered the dressing room.

“Miloš, what are you doing here?” she asked, looking at him with concern. “I’ve been looking for you. Damir says we need help. Lots of wounded again.”

Miloš sighed and looked at Jasmina. Her eyes were tired, but a spark of hope still burned in them.

“I can’t, Jasmina,” said Miloš. “I can’t see it anymore. I’m tired.”

Jasmina walked over to him and took his hands.

“I know, Miloš,” she said. “It’s hard for you. But you’re needed there. Those people need you.”

Miloš looked at Jasmina and felt a new wave of despair rising in his soul.

“Why, Jasmina?” he asked. “Why are we doing all this? So they can go back to war and die? So they can remain disabled for life? So they can suffer from nightmares and memories?”

Jasmina squeezed his hands tightly.

“We can’t know what awaits them ahead, Miloš,” she said. “But we can give them a chance. A chance at life. A chance at hope. A chance that things can still be good.”

A cry full of pain and despair sounded outside the door. Miloš flinched.

“They’re waiting for us, Miloš,” said Jasmina. “They need us.”

Miloš looked at Jasmina and saw a plea in her eyes. A plea for compassion, for mercy, for humanity.

He remembered his grandfather’s words: “If you see someone in need of your help, don’t pass by. Help them however you can. Because if you don’t help, who will?”

Miloš sighed and straightened up.

“You’re right, Jasmina,” he said. “We must go.”

Jasmina smiled at him and kissed him on the cheek.

“I knew you wouldn’t give up,” she said. “Together we’ll get through everything.”

Taking the medical bag in his hands, Miloš left the dressing room following Jasmina. He knew what awaited him ahead. Blood, pain, death. But he also knew he was not alone. That there were people who shared his pain, who supported him. And for these people, he was ready to keep fighting. Ready to move forward, no matter what.

Chapter 5

Shadows of the Past

Ahmed stood in the doorway as if felled, his whitened fingers gripping the doorframe. His haggard face, with deep shadows under his eyes, resembled an ancient mask frozen in a grimace of pain. He seemed not to breathe, not to blink, simply existing in his own, separate world.

Aliya and Branko, frozen in anticipation, felt the tension growing. It was as if they were watching a dangerous experiment with an unpredictable outcome. Branko, despite his stern appearance, discreetly wiped sweat from his brow. Aliya, on the contrary, tried to remain calm, though inside everything had tightened into a hard knot.

Miloš, face to face with his past, experienced a strange mix of feelings. He felt sorry for this broken man, but at the same time he felt a certain detachment, as if looking at himself many years ago.

He took a few steps forward, closing the distance, and stopped a few meters from Ahmed.

“Ahmed,” he said, trying to put warmth and confidence into his voice. “I know it’s hard for you right now. I understand what you’ve been through. I see the pain in your eyes.”

Ahmed, as if waking from a trance, slowly raised his head and looked at Miloš. His gaze held no joy, no recognition — only emptiness and a kind of animal wariness.

“You… who?” he rasped, as if every word cost him enormous effort.

“My name is Miloš,” Miloš answered, trying not to look him directly in the eye. “I’m a doctor. I came here to help you.”

Ahmed gave a crooked smile, and a contemptuous spark flashed in his eyes.

“Help?” he repeated, as if tasting the word. “You can’t help me anymore. I’m a dead man.”

Aliya, hearing these words, involuntarily shuddered. She became truly afraid for Miloš. She was afraid Ahmed might snap, that he might harm him.

“That’s not true, Ahmed,” Miloš objected, trying to speak softly and convincingly. “You’re alive. And as long as you’re alive, you have hope.”