I’m Mirko, Officer Mirko, and my job is to keep order. And when it’s night, there’s no wandering around, my friends. For over three hundred years, I’ve walked through Tvrđa, day and night, always on the same duty. Keeping things in line, enforcing the rules, collecting a tax from those I judge to have had too much to drink, and so on…

Lately, these buildings seem like they’re breathing, like they’re hiding something more than what meets the eye. A few times a month, a group of people shows up with a guide. Nikolina, the guide, leads them through the cobblestones. I know her. An actress, they say—always playing a role, and I can’t tell if she’s acting even when she leads these tours. She drags a cart that makes quite the racket and carries those illustrated boards of hers. Kamishibai, that’s what she calls it—a Japanese picture storytelling. I’ve never understood that kind of art, but I see that people hang on her every word. I’m not one to dwell on such things. When you wear a uniform, you learn not to ask too many questions. You close your eyes to things you can’t explain, and you keep walking. Nikolina has that voice, almost hypnotic, and when she speaks, you forget about time.

Tonight, they’ll be searching for that "invisible" thing again. I prepare myself as always, take my place, and watch the group approach.

But this time… this time something feels different. The group she’s leading, they’re not like the usual ones. At first, I think they’re just curious visitors, but as they get closer, something feels off. Their clothing. None of them are wearing anything I recognize. It all seems different, but in a wrong kind of way.

For a moment, I think they might be actors from a play, but then I notice how they walk, how they move—too calm, too certain, like they’ve been here before, more than once. And the strangest part? When I approach them, they don’t look at me like usual. They smile, nod their heads, not seeing me as a threat or a keeper of order. They look at me like… I’m not part of their world.

Nikolina continues with her tour. Her voice echoes through the cobblestones, telling the story of Edgar, past of Tvrđa, of the tailor who sewed for people he could never see. The story is always the same, but Nikolina knows how to twist it, give it a new tone, so people are glued to her words. And while she speaks, I watch these people. They absorb every word, but not like tourists. They listen like it’s something familiar, something already close to them.

As they head towards the command building, I pause and feel uneasy. I move closer to Nikolina, she’s still talking, but now I listen more carefully. This was the site of the first Osijek theater in German, with professional actors. She tells the tale of the plague ravaging Tvrđa, of the people who vanished, of those who were left forgotten. The curious visitors, or whoever they are, suddenly look up at the sky. It’s as if for a moment, they’re all connected, all in the same rhythm, as if they were… waiting for that sentence. I shiver. Something is happening here, something I don’t understand.

They head towards the house where the goldsmith lives. And I go to my next spot, unsure where the story ends and reality begins.

She keeps mentioning Edgar, a man who somehow became invisible through some sort of magic. I wouldn’t usually take that seriously, but something today makes me stay on guard. I’ve always known there’s something not right with Tvrđa, but this… this is different. Nikolina speaks of gold, scholars, the military, the clergy…

That’s when I decide to get closer. “Nikolina,” I say quietly, not wanting to interrupt her storytelling. “Who are these people?” She turns and looks at me with a smile, like it’s the most ordinary question in the world. “Mirko,” she replies, “don’t worry. They’re just here for the story.”

But I can see that’s not true. I look at them again, and something about that scene tells me they’re not here by chance. As the tour moves further through Tvrđa, I take a different path. Nikolina leads them toward the bakery, then later to the barracks, which she keeps calling the archive. It’ll take about twenty more minutes before we cross paths again. Somewhere between her so-called archive and the Water Gate, the story of Edgar reaches its climax.

In the moment when Nikolina finishes the tour—talking about Erika’s second book and her other tours—the air suddenly feels lighter. She gathers her things, and one by one, the people from the group start walking silently toward the fortress exits, as if something is leading them.

I try to make sense of what’s happening. “Nikolina,” I call out to her again, “who are they, really?” She looks back over her shoulder, and again, with a smile, says: “Time travelers, Mirko. They’re searching for what was once lost.” I watch them as they leave, and now I understand. They’re not just curious visitors. They’re… travelers. People returning, searching for what’s invisible, some looking for pieces of history, and some for pieces of themselves.

I lean against the wall, confused. I don’t know what to think. In all my years as an officer, over three hundred years, I’ve never seen anything like this. “I’m not one to dwell on such things,” I say out loud to myself. When you wear a uniform, you learn not to ask too many questions. You close your eyes to things you can’t explain, and you keep walking.

Nikolina se približi, tapne me po ramenu i kaže: “Nemaš razloga za brigu, Mirko. Otišli su.” Ali ja znam da nisu. Tvrđa čuva svoje tajne i oni će se vratiti. Jer prošlost nikad ne ostaje zaključana u arhivima. Ne ovdje.