I’m not the one telling you this story…

I stand at the edge of the park, hands deep in my pockets, listening to the wind rustling through the trees. The streetlights far behind me cast just enough light to see the outlines of the group as they move toward me. My job? Simple. I wait at certain points and give them the signal when it’s safe to move on. But it’s not as straightforward as it seems.

Noć u Tvrđi ima svoje raspoloženje, nešto teško i nevidljivo lebdi nad ovim starim kamenjem. Ovo se dogodilo već bezbroj puta, ali kada se na trgu Sv. Trojstva u Tvrđi prvi plamen fenjera zapali, uvijek ima nešto ritualno u sebi. Miroslav taj posao napravi prije nego što se grupa počne okupljati. Radi to brižljivo, s pažnjom koja je graniči s obožavanjem. Pripremi dovoljan broj fenjera, pazeći da svaki bude savršen – dovoljno napunjen petrolejem, sa staklom koje se sjaji i pažljivo postavljenim fitiljem. Gotovo kao da su ti fenjeri produžetak njega samog. Nikolina odabire svoj fenjer i kada se za nekoliko trenutaka obrati grupi njezin glas više neće biti njen. U trenutku kada riječi počnu teći, postaje Eržika, mlinarica iz prošlog stoljeća. Baš kako treba – ništa previše jasno, samo obris povijesti koja polako izlazi iz sjene.

Every time I take my place, I feel as if the past is watching me. I just have to wait... and listen.

I hear them coming, laughter at first, then silence. Nikolina always knows how to hold their attention. As she speaks, it’s easy to forget that the walls around us have seen more than we could ever imagine. I signal to them that the path to the old bakery is clear.

The lanterns in their hands dance in the night, little tongues of flame barely lighting the way ahead. I know they’re not thinking about how slippery the steps are. They’re just listening to the stories, absorbing the past, almost as if they’ve forgotten where they are.

As they come closer, I glance at Nikolina. The signal. We work like a well-rehearsed team, and they have no idea I’m even here.

Watching them from a distance, Miroslav’s voice echoes in my head. His tale about electrification always brings a certain weight. The group stands in a circle, their lanterns lowered. Here, in this moment, the silence is almost tangible. They all wait, as if the story has wrapped them in some invisible web.

To my left, I hear a faint sound—nothing dramatic, just a quiet sign that it’s time to check further ahead. I slowly make my way toward the Water Gate to see if the passage is clear. It’s the darkest spot. There’s no light except what comes from my lantern. I’m always careful with my steps; every inch of this path is familiar under my feet, but still, trouble can arise when you least expect it.

I lean forward and see them coming toward me, their lanterns flickering like little fireflies in the night. I glance back at the passage and assess the situation. It’s damp, the ground could be slippery, but it seems safe enough. The signal. It’s clear to pass.

As they walk by, some barely notice me. Others look at me as if trying to figure out why I’m here. A puzzle without an answer. I just smile. I’m not here to distract them. My presence simply ensures the story keeps moving.

When the night is over, and the lanterns go out one by one, I always stay a little longer. The smell of kerosene and the silence. That’s when the past curls back into place, nestling between the walls, waiting for the next group.

And me? I’m waiting too, for the sign that it’s safe to move on.