Zagreb: Be Wounded, Even Just Once

Heartbreak is the one experience that levels us all, no matter our backgrounds.

written by Benny Arnas

I arrived in that city on a morning that itself seemed reluctant to wake up. Fog still hung low over the highway as the Blablacar I was riding in slowly entered the outskirts of Ribnjak. It was early March 2023, my second visit to a place that, four years earlier, had welcomed me with the warm sun of spring. This time, Zagreb appeared pale, as if to remind me that while a host may await your return, it is under no obligation to offer you the same welcome as before.

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Listening to Dragan …

The journey from Bled took nearly three hours. The driver, a man with a rugged face named Dragan, picked me up at a bus stop near the lake. Before arriving, he had messaged me: “My car’s an old BMW. If you don’t mind, please sit in front. The back seat’s a bit broken.” I agreed without asking further. I slipped my backpack into the trunk, noting his ageing frame, perhaps nearing sixty.

Throughout the drive, he spoke barely a word, except when we stopped at a gas station in Ljubljana to buy coffee. “Try this Bosnian coffee,” he said softly, handing me a paper cup, after I had told him I wasn’t interested in stopping at Slovenia’s capital since I had yet to find an interviewee who could tell me more about the Polish Jews exiled here. The aroma of roasted robusta filled the car. Dragan, as he had introduced himself, lit a cigarette, staring at the fog with eyes that seemed to pierce far back into a time no longer visible.

The car rolled on, the old engine sighing and groaning beneath us. Outside the window, the green-wet vistas of the old city slowly gave way to open fields. Red-roofed houses scattered randomly across the distant hills. I was about to continue reading a novel on my laptop, its story long interrupted, when Dragan suddenly spoke.

“You know, this road used to be filled with tanks.”

“Tanks?” My hand reflexively closed the laptop.

“War,” he answered briefly.

That word fell between us like a hammer cracking the silent space. I glanced at his face. A hard jaw, drooping eyes, wrinkled cheeks that somehow radiated another voice he did not utter aloud. Without turning, he continued.

“In 1991. I was 24. Sent to the frontline. Osijek. You know Osijek?”

I nodded slightly though I wasn’t certain where it was. The names of Balkan towns spun in my head like chess pieces on a blurred board. He spoke of long nights broken by sirens and artillery blasts. Of mornings thick with the smell of gunpowder. Of a friend who died in his arms, chest torn open like freshly dug earth. Of autumn rains pouring down into the trenches until soldiers had to fire their rifles while half-submerged in mud.

I listened while staring out the window. The magical Lake Bled from this morning suddenly lost its light. I still remembered the tiny church tower piercing the mist, asserting that prayers always find their way home. But here, beside this old man whose war wounds never truly healed, Bled felt like a colour photograph left in a darkroom. Beautiful, yet powerless.

“After the war,” he continued, “we came home. But home was no longer home. And neither were we.

After the war, we went home. But home was no longer home. Neither were we.”

Dragan

This time, he turned to me. His eyes were vacant, as if looking at something far behind his shoulders. I lowered my gaze, sipping the bitter Bosnian coffee, letting its aroma slap my senses awake. Perhaps that’s what war tastes like: bitter, warm, clinging to your tongue, refusing to be forgotten.

The car slowed as it entered the urban outskirts. A blue tram glided down the central rail. People waited at the stops, clutching shopping bags, staring up at the pale sky. In the distance, the cathedral’s twin spires pierced the fog, forming jagged silhouettes that reminded anyone watching that this land was once ruled by great kingdoms and fell, over and over again, into the wearying churn of history.

We pulled over on a pavement near the city square. Dragan turned off the engine, staring ahead for a few moments before looking at me with a faint smile.

“Thank you for listening,” he said.

I stepped onto the sidewalk. He helped me lift my suitcase down, patted my shoulder lightly, and left without another word. His back slowly disappeared around the street corner. The smell of cigarettes and Bosnian coffee still lingered in my nostrils.

All around, pedestrians walked across the cold stone pavements. Austro-Hungarian buildings stood aged, their cream paint peeling, their large wooden windows just as weary. The morning air bit my cheeks. Another blue tram approached, moving with a gentle hum along the iron rails, as if carrying its passengers across both time and unspoken wounds.

I pulled my suitcase along, walking towards my hostel, staring up at the cathedral spires cutting through the morning fog. For reasons I could not name, my steps felt heavier than usual. Not because of the suitcase, but because of the stories of wounds clinging to the city’s air—settling on every stone facade, every face staring emptily ahead, every blue tram that passed in silence.

Opening my digital map to find the shortest walking route to my lodging, I realised one thing: there are cities that offer us dreams, and there are cities that offer us mirrors. This place is not somewhere to forget. It is a space where wounds are never truly healed.

I kept walking over the stone pavements, letting the suitcase wheels drum out a steady rhythm behind me. It felt like I was knocking on the doors of the city’s past, one by one. The smell of toasted bread from a tiny café mingled with tobacco smoke, wrapping around the still-shivering morning. Beneath the window of an old apartment, a middle-aged woman tended her geranium pots. Her gaze was empty as she looked at the crimson flowers, perhaps reminding her of a time she no longer knew how to locate.

I paused near a tram stop. A man in a grey suit stood with his head bowed, eyes locked on his phone screen. Beside him, an old woman in a black headscarf clutched a floral canvas shopping bag. Their faces were equally vacant, waiting for the blue tram to carry them off to destinations unknown. Neither showed urgency, as if they had accepted that life need not move so quickly.

At the edge of the stop, a large poster covered the bakery wall: a black-and-white portrait of a young soldier gazing at the camera with a thin smile. I stepped closer to read the small caption beneath. “In memory of the freedom fighters who fell in the Homeland War.” I lingered on his eyes. In the photo, he looked proud, his gaze lit with hope, perhaps imagining a future for his country as bright as the resolve holding his posture upright. But we know war never offers pure victory. Victory is only another name for someone else’s loss.

My steps resumed. Beside the cathedral, white tents displayed flowers, honey, and cheese. The vendors bustled with their arrangements, appearing entirely ordinary, as though their lives had never been disturbed by war. But I knew better. War does not always leave its mark on the surface. Its wounds lodge deep in silent nerves, waiting to be triggered by a story or the scent of Bosnian coffee like this morning.

I slipped into a narrow alley, passing graffiti that covered half a red brick wall. In large letters it read: “No more brother wars.” No one turned as I stopped to read it. Perhaps those words had become too familiar to be noticed. Or too painful to keep seeing.

As I walked towards the hostel tucked between an old bookstore and a dim café, I asked myself: how many wounds does it take for a person to truly understand what it means to grow? Here, wounds are not merely traumatic events; they are cultural artefacts passed from generation to generation. Like the Austro-Hungarian walls that still stand despite their peeling paint and moss-stained stones. Here, wounds are preserved—not to nurture revenge, but to remind us that history never truly ends.

I exhaled deeply, glancing up at the sky as it began to clear. The fog retreated, revealing church spires and pastel baroque buildings ageing with quiet dignity. There is a fragile beauty in every detail of this city. A beauty born not from a desire to be beautiful, but from sheer stubbornness to survive. And it is in that silent stubbornness that this city became a teacher without words.

I kept walking, feeling a warm stirring in my chest that arrived without warning. Perhaps, as Dragan said earlier, home is never the same once we return. Or perhaps, this city merely wished to whisper: that loss is part of life, and to remain sane, we must learn to accept our fractures, just like these old buildings that age alongside their cracks.

Coffee, Soldiers, and Writing Pain

I sat on a wooden bench in the park behind a neoclassical building now repurposed as an art gallery. Before me, old chestnut trees spread their dense leaves, shading the stone path below. The aroma of prigorska pogača—bread made with flour, yeast, oil, eggs, sugar, milk, and salt—which I had just bought from a tiny café on the corner, offered a calming presence. After two bites filled my mouth with a savoury warmth that clung to my tongue long enough to erase the bitter remnants of Bosnian coffee I had sipped with Dragan earlier, I realised I needed a cappuccino.

Morning had not fully warmed yet. A thin veil of mist danced among the tree trunks. I sipped my cappuccino slowly, careful not to scald my tongue on its heat.

Not far from my bench, a man in a camouflage uniform sat upon a black iron chair. He looked to be in his early forties, with a strong chin and deep brown eyes that stared far ahead, as if piercing through the trees and the old buildings behind them. A canned coffee rested in his grip. His hands were large and clean, his nails neatly trimmed. I watched him for a few seconds, sensing something remarkable in the stillness of his face.

I raised my paper cup, offering a silent greeting. He turned, lifted his can in reply, and our eyes met with a small smile before drifting back to the quiet path. Occasionally the flapping wings of pigeons broke the morning silence. I imagined that if this were a film, our scene would unfold under a soft orchestral score, emphasising how silence can speak louder than any dialogue.

For about five minutes, neither of us spoke. Then he turned and spoke in slow English, his voice marked by that unmistakable Slavic lilt. “Good coffee.”

Naturally, I turned towards him.

“But too bitter for such a peaceful morning.”

I held his gaze, smiling this time. “Sometimes,” I said, “it’s the bitterness that makes us feel alive.”

He laughed softly. It was a stiff laugh, yet warm, as if something within him was trying to break free—from his chest, from his past. “True,” he said, staring at the can in his hand. “Back then, during military training, even cheap sachet coffee tasted like heaven. Now that everything is calm again, even expensive coffee doesn’t always bring peace.”

Back then, during military training, even cheap sachet coffee tasted like heaven. Now that everything is calm again, even expensive coffee doesn’t always bring peace.“

Luka

I looked at him more deeply. “Are you an active soldier?”

He nodded. “Still. But only administrative duties now. I used to be in the field, Bosnia, Kosovo, then I came home and served in my own country.”

There was a pause. I simply looked at him with questioning eyes, waiting if he wanted to say more.

“At the military academy, our seniors always told us stories about how this country used to be one great homeland,” he continued softly. “We grew up with tales about how that country was destroyed by people who couldn’t bear differences. Stories of battles, massacres, and houses burned to the ground.”

He took a sip of his coffee, staring at the can for a long moment. “But the most frightening part isn’t war itself, but the days that come after. How people walk among the rubble, picking up pieces of their lives, trying to keep living when nothing remains the same.”

I listened with all my senses. The smell of coffee and morning leaves seemed to form a stage for this heavy testimony. Before me sat a human being carrying invisible wounds, wounds that never fully heal. Wounds inherited through stories, through the way they raise their children, through the way they look at the future with wary eyes.

“You know,” he said, turning to me, “at the academy we were taught tactics of war, strategies, leadership. But there wasn’t a single lesson on how to live after war. No class on how to forgive the enemy who killed your friends. No lesson on how to forgive yourself for failing to protect them.”

I looked into his eyes. He was staring forward, blankly. Fine lines etched the corners of his eyes, like tiny dry riverbeds. I knew he wasn’t really speaking to me, but to something far within himself—perhaps to the young soldier he once was, raising his weapon with confidence before he learned that victory is only another word for someone else’s loss.

“Do you regret becoming a soldier?” I asked quietly.

He fell silent for a long while. A pigeon landed on the bench between us, looked around, then flew away. A light breeze rustled the chestnut leaves, creating a soothing drizzling sound.

“No,” he finally said. “Without war, I would never understand what peace is.”

He stood up, straightening his camouflage jacket. “And you?” he asked, looking at me.

“I’m a writer.”

“Keep writing.”

I laughed. “Safe advice. Benny!” I offered my hand.

“Luka.” He took it. “You’re not used to cold countries, are you?”

I knew he was slightly surprised to feel how cold my hand was. I nodded. I didn’t want to admit that I suddenly felt nervous upon hearing his name.

“I’m serious,” Luka grinned. “I once had a soldier who became the scribe for our long letters home. We asked for his help not because he wrote beautifully, but because at such young ages, most soldiers already had tremors. Training taught us how to attack and defend, not how to depict cruelty and pain into words. Yet… writing is so important.”

“You’re very serious about your respect for writing, Luka.”

Luka nodded. “Because writing is the only way for the next generation not to have to learn through war.”

He walked away from the bench, his steps steady though unhurried. I watched his back for a long time, until it disappeared behind the garden’s iron fence. “Take care,” I said, as if hoping he would bid farewell with words.

Luka smiled. Just smiled. “Thank you for the conversation, Benny.” And then he was truly gone.

Behind him, I sipped the last of my now-cold coffee, watching his upright back disappear. The morning air began to warm, revealing the beauty of a city that aged alongside its wounds. I remembered the words of a sociologist: In places once destroyed, people learn to build with the awareness that everything can crumble again.

And here, on this park bench in this old city, I learned that the bitterness of morning coffee is nothing compared to the bitterness of wounds left by history. Yet beneath that bitterness, there is a calming warmth: the taste that reminds us we are still alive to sip it.

Museum of Broken Hearts and the Ritual of Letting Go

The sky hung overcast that afternoon. The cobbled streets felt slick from last night’s drizzle. I walked up a narrow path leading to an old white-painted building with a simple black signboard. By the entrance was written: Museum of Broken Relationships. A sign that, four years ago on my first visit to Zagreb, I had read silently, translating it in my mind as The Museum of Broken Hearts.

Inside, dim lamps bathed the rooms in a mournful glow. The wooden floors creaked softly with each of my steps, as if they too felt the heaviness of memories carried in by visitors. On the wall of the first room, a line hung: What to do with the objects that outlive love?

I paused for a moment. The sentence felt like a slap. We often forget, heartbreak isn’t just about tears or unsent words of longing, but also about the objects left behind: a coffee cup without its pair, train tickets never used, letters never sent. This museum kept all of them, not merely as objects, but as wounds that would rot if never released.

In the first glass case sat a white bunny doll. Its caption read: Given to me by my first love. He left to marry the woman his mother chose. This doll kept me company through months of tears. I gazed at the bunny for a long time, imagining its owner. What did she feel when she handed this doll to the museum? Relief, or an even deeper pain?

I walked slowly, reading each story beneath the items. A cracked beer glass glued back together, a fake pearl necklace, even a pink motorcycle helmet. Their stories echoed each other: meeting, warmth, then betrayal or departure. These objects stood as silent witnesses to how skilled humans are at nurturing hope, only to so swiftly cast each other into loss.

In the middle of the room, a woman with shoulder-length curly hair arranged postcards sold at the museum store. Her name was Olinka Vištica, one of the founders of this place along with Dražen Grubišić. I waited until she finished arranging them, then approached.

“Excuse me, I’ve emailed you so many times, but never received a reply?” I asked quietly.

She turned to me. “Oh yes?” Her brow furrowed. “Ah, I’ve been too busy tending to wounds.” She smiled now. “Please. How can I help you? We can talk casually, can’t we?” she offered.

Of course I nodded.

“First visit, or…?”

“I was here in spring 2019.”

“Wow!”

“But I couldn’t really take it in. I didn’t get to greet you either. I was with a group who… seemed to have no wounds they needed to release.”

Oli—she asked to be called that—laughed. I laughed along.

“When I returned from that trip, or rather when our group arrived in Plitvice the next day, I began to think. I will come back. Alone.”

She nodded, looking deep into my eyes, as if to confirm my seriousness. “This museum was born from a simple idea. When Dražen and I broke up, we asked ourselves, what will we do with all the gifts we gave each other? We didn’t want to just throw them away. Then came the idea: what if we held a small exhibition? It turned out many friends wanted to entrust their objects too. That’s how this museum was born,” she explained, as if knowing it was the fundamental story she must always share with those curious about the Museum of Broken Hearts.

I nodded, feeling a warm stir in my chest. Letting go doesn’t always mean forgetting. Sometimes, letting go means tending to memories by placing them in a rightful space, so we no longer carry them everywhere we go.

“What do you think,” I asked, “makes this museum so popular?”

She smiled. “Ask those who come, Benn.”

“Is it perhaps because everyone has had their heart broken? And we want to believe that our wounds have a place to be left. Not only in our hearts.”

“It seems you’ve already answered your own question.” She stifled a laugh.

I looked at Olinka’s serene face. There was wisdom in her eyes. Perhaps because she had heard thousands of heartbreak stories, read them, curated them into an exhibition that made us realize: we are not alone. Heartbreak is an experience that places everyone on equal ground, regardless of their background.

“Enjoy this museum. I hope this time you can truly contemplate all the wounds here. Not to take them home, but to distill them into lessons.” Then she left me, greeting visitors who had been waiting behind.

I walked again through the rooms, reading story after story. There were golden high heels captioned: I wore these to your wedding. You danced with your wife, I danced with my pain.

There was also a thick rope, two fingers wide. Beneath it read: I wanted to hang myself when he left. But I chose to send this rope to the museum instead. Now I live and love someone else.

I held my breath. This museum was not merely an exhibition space, but an altar of confession. A place where people laid down their emotional shame without judgment. This museum taught me one thing: no one ever truly heals from their wounds, but one can make peace with them by no longer denying their existence.

No one ever truly heals from their wounds, but one can make peace with them by no longer denying they are hurt.

Museum of Broken Relationships

At the far end of the room, before the exit, stood a large mirror inscribed with a quote from Milan Kundera: The heavier the burden, the closer our lives come to the earth, the more real and truthful they become. I gazed at my own reflection for a long time. What burdens have I carried all this time? From whom did these wounds come? And to whom have I surrendered them?

After failing to say goodbye to Olinka before leaving, I stepped out of the museum slowly. The rain had stopped. Wet streets reflected the glow of garden lamps just turning on. I looked up at the grey dusk sky, and for the first time that day, I felt relieved. Relieved, knowing that any wound, when acknowledged, can be transformed into strength to keep moving forward.

Objects That Refuse to Be Forgotten

It was after the midday prayer in Zagreb when I sat on a small park bench beside the museum. As I finished off my fritule, I gazed at the white building with its tall glass windows. These sweet, small fried dough balls, so similar to donuts, felt oddly tasteless on my tongue. Perhaps it was the lingering strangeness within me since morning—ever since my hours in that museum. Yes, it felt strange, that a place could be built by a pair of “heartbreak victims” to celebrate their parting: housing hundreds, even thousands, of heartbreaks from people across the world. Strange. But real.

While still inside, I jotted down some stories that clung to my mind like Post-it notes demanding to be reread on a cluttered desk. One man from Serbia donated his mother’s dancing shoes. Those shoes, he said, once made her dance joyfully at her wedding, before that night turned to hell. Her husband beat her on their wedding night. The shoes stood witness to a young woman’s dream of marriage shattered even before she slept in her bridal bed.

There was also a woman from Canada who gave the museum a small tube filled with her ex-lover’s cigarette ashes. They broke up because he chose to return to his ex-wife for the sake of their children. Those ashes, she wrote, were what remained of their final conversation on the apartment balcony, as snow fell softly and they both knew they would never sit there together again.

These objects refuse to be forgotten. This museum proves that humans have strange ways of tending to wounds: not by discarding, but by keeping them in a safe space, so they no longer haunt our homes or our sleep.

I sat for a long time on that bench across the street, swallowing three gulps of mineral water to wash down the fritule crumbs scratching my throat. Yes, I told myself, I must finish that last corridor. I had to go back in.

Inside, a white lace wedding dress was on display. Its story was brief: I bought it two months before my wedding. A week before the day, he left with another woman. I kept this dress for seven years. Then I realized, he will never come back. And I no longer want him back.

I stood before the dress for a long time. Seven years. Imagine, seven years spent with a piece of unused fabric occupying your wardrobe, your heart, your prayers and curses. Until finally, she surrendered it here, as if saying to herself: enough.

This museum has held thousands of items since it first opened in 2006. Its concept has traveled the world: Seoul, San Francisco, London, Buenos Aires, Berlin. Olinka Vištica and Dražen Grubišić assembled a special team to curate and manage each donated object. Every item is curated, accompanied by a written narrative—because this museum is not about objects, but about stories.

In the central room, a museum staff member was rearranging a display case. I stood a short distance away, observing how carefully she positioned each item. She arranged them not like a shopkeeper arranging goods, but like a priest tending an altar: with reverence.

I remembered the Kuna tribe in Panama. In their culture, heartbreak is tended through an ancient ritual. Mementos are burned in a full-moon ceremony. They believe that wounds never released become poison to the body. This museum, to me, is a modern version of that ritual. Instead of burning, the objects are arranged neatly, made part of a larger human story.

I walked down the last corridor. There, a small neon sign glowed: Love is a battlefield. I smiled slightly as I read it. A cliché phrase, but here, those words found their true home.

Each person who donates to this museum, according to Olinka, receives a thank-you letter. They are welcome to visit their object on display, or allow it to remain anonymous forever.

I wondered, if I were to donate something here, what would I choose? Would I remain anonymous, or would I want the world to know I too have been wounded?

I looked at my own hands, imagining the objects I once held with love that had turned into bitter memories: handwritten letters from friends who rejected me, a black T-shirt gifted by someone who now despises me, even certain books I can no longer read because each page carries a wound of loss.

This museum never judges the reasons behind donations. Because truly, we all carry different standards of pain. Some see a breakup as trivial, while to others, it breaks half their life. Some treat divorce as mere paperwork, while to others, it’s the end of dignity and existence.

I walked out as cold wind brushed my face. The evening sky remained as grey as when I entered. Yet somehow, this time the gloom felt comforting. Like the museum that soothes human wounds, not by advising them to forget, but by providing a place to set them down.

Outside the museum, a young tourist couple was taking a selfie in front of the sign Broken Relationships. They were laughing. I wondered if they understood that the backdrop of their photo was actually the quietest confession hall of love and loss.

I walked slowly down the stone steps to the main road. There was a small flutter in my chest, a kind of relief, like having just set down a heavy load. I looked again at my own fingers, pondering which object I might one day let go of—not because I hate the memory it holds, but because I want to live lighter.

And perhaps this museum, though it does not heal, has shown me one path: that wounds, when acknowledged and placed in the right space, no longer hurt. They simply become stories, parts of ourselves that age gracefully with time.

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Mending Wounds with Running Shoes

On my third morning, before the sun had fully risen, I stepped out of the hostel in my running shoes, black training pants, and a thin jacket. The cold air brushed my face, cutting to the bone, a sharp reminder that early winter was beginning to bare its fangs. The streets were still empty. City lights glowed a faint yellow, casting their beams onto sidewalks still slick from the night’s drizzle.

I began running slowly, following pedestrian paths that sliced through city parks, crossing old bridges that watched over the river flowing silently beneath. Five years ago, I could hardly believe I’d ever run like this. My breath was short, my knees were fragile, my mind too loud with excuses to stop, and … I was too engrossed with words bouncing in my head and on laptop screens always ready to catch them with open hands. But that was then.

Today, in this liminal space between winter and spring in the heart of Central Europe, my strides were firm. For the past four years, running had become a ritual that stitched my old wounds. Every step affirmed that this body still bore life’s burdens, no matter how heavy. Back then, when I was bullied in school for my poverty—the faded uniform, my elementary school red shorts torn at one hem, black shoes with gaping holes—everything became fodder for ridicule. My low Math grades deepened those childhood wounds, making them ever raw in adulthood memories. I remember the words: short, poor, stupid. I believed them, for a long time.

I spent school years with my head down, speaking only when necessary, suppressing hunger when I had no lunch. I longed to spend time in the library, but in elementary school it was always locked, the staff too fearful we’d steal the books.

In college, little changed. I often avoided mountain hikes or waterfall trips with friends. Not because I lacked stamina, but because every adventure ended with a celebration I could never afford. Some knew my struggle but chose silence. Others simply thought I was stingy or weak. Ah, let them think what they wished. I turned instead to the campus Islamic organization, practiced nasheed, or spent afternoons in cafeteria corners and mosque verandas, reading or scribbling poems into notebooks whose pages browned with age. I joined the campus journalism club but contributed little. Only later did I realize, my passion was narrative, not news. I loved stories, not data.

This morning, in this old city, I ran past Austro-Hungarian buildings with their towering pillars, wide wooden-framed windows, and balconies lined with blooming geraniums that watched my steps with ancient calm. I crossed the main park, where maple trees shed orange leaves, carpeting the wet ground like a warm quilt.

At kilometer six, my breath grew heavy, but my feet refused to stop. For me, running was never just exercise—it was a rebellion against the quiet voice whispering, “Stop. Six is enough. Especially in this cold, five degrees Celsius!”

I ran towards the World War I memorial, where the names of fallen soldiers were etched into black granite. I paused, reading the names. Their wounds are eternal now, no longer demanding healing. But mine—and all ours still living—demand we keep moving forward, refusing surrender, refusing to grow old with nothing but regret.

At kilometer eight, I descended towards the river that bisects the city. Thin mist danced over the water. The sky shifted from gray to pale orange. A golden retriever raced past me, tongue out, eyes bright with joy. Its owner jogged behind, smiling at me. We nodded at each other, understanding that this morning, we welcomed life in its purest form: by moving.

At kilometer nine, my legs ached. My hands were cold. But my heart felt warm. I saw the opera house in the distance, the aging clock tower, the old blue tram rattling along its tracks, carrying early workers. Here, everything felt ordinary, but for me, this morning was a victory.

At kilometer ten, I stopped in front of the old cathedral with its twin towers scratching the morning sky. My breath rasped. Sweat soaked my jacket. My hands trembled from the cold. But my chest felt wide open.

I looked up at the cathedral towers. Gothic architecture built centuries ago, surviving wars, earthquakes, fires, and countless restorations. Yet it still stands. Its wounds patched, mended, rebuilt with new stones. It never rejected those patches. For to reject them would mean collapse. And for a tower, collapse is the death of purpose.

So it is with humans. Wounds never vanish. They merely transform into strength, if we are willing to mend them with new steps. That morning, my strides stitched so many wounds: poverty, ridicule, failure, fear, and the long loneliness that drapes every night.

I inhaled deeply. The smell of pogača and coffee from a café across the street greeted my nose. Streetlights dimmed, giving way to sunlight piercing through the old buildings. I walked down the cathedral steps, glancing at my running shoes, now wet with dew. I always remember and believe, at speed, alpha energy flows boundlessly!

So, it was impossible for me to leave Zagreb—this city forever tending its scars—without running: to honour it, to inhale its past, before returning home with joy to write story after story, even if I wore only ordinary sneakers instead of running shoes. Ah!

For life, ultimately, is not about forgetting wounds, but about patching them so we can keep walking, keep aging, keep writing our little tales before the world forgets our names entirely.

I looked again at my New Balance shoes, their laces freshly tied. They weren’t expensive, barely a third the price of professional running shoes. But they faithfully carried me through every kilometre, wherever I was—whether on European sidewalks, muddy village trails, or sun-baked city streets. These shoes knew one thing only: running is the best way to embrace speed, whether as creative energy or as a necessary urgency.

I smiled to myself. That day, I felt I had patched up a little of my old wounds. Tomorrow, they may tear open again under life’s weight. But tomorrow too, I will run again, mending them with new steps.

Because life, in the end, is never about forgetting wounds. It is about patching them so we can keep walking, keep aging, and keep writing our small stories before the world forgets our names entirely.

Zagreb, 2024 – Bengkulu, 2025