Pitaju_me_svi -

By the third day, the rumor mill was at a boiling point. In the local konoba , where the scent of grilled sardines and cheap red wine hung thick in the air, Marko sat in the corner. He wanted to be invisible, but in a place where everyone knows your grandfather’s middle name, invisibility is a luxury. One by one, they approached.

And in the quiet evenings, as the sun dipped below the horizon, turning the sea into a sheet of hammered gold, the only voice he heard was the wind—and it didn't ask him a single thing.

He didn't make it to his old family home before the first person stopped him. It was Stjepan, the fisherman, whose skin looked like cured leather. pitaju_me_svi

Finally, Marko stood up. The tavern went quiet. The clinking of glasses stopped.

"Marko? Is that you?" Stjepan squinted through the sun. "Where have you been, boy? —everyone’s been asking me since your mother passed. Why did you stay away? What did you find out there?" By the third day, the rumor mill was at a boiling point

Marko offered a tight, polite smile. "Just traveling, Stjepan. Just living." But "just living" was never enough for the people of Omiš. The Gathering

"You all keep saying the same thing," Marko said, his voice low but steady. "'' You ask where I went, what I did, and why I’m back. You want to know if I’m a hero or a failure." One by one, they approached

"Marko, ," said Luka, an old school friend who had never left the village. "They say you made a fortune in South America. They say you lost it all in a gamble. Which is it?"