The sun burned over the old sandstone walls of Trebinje, a city shrouded in golden silence in the afternoon hours. The narrow streets were deserted, the shutters half-closed, as if to keep secrets.
Hanifa stepped barefoot onto the cool stone floor of her small balcony. Her long, dark hair was still damp from bathing, her skin glistened slightly from the oil she had slowly rubbed into her shoulders. The cicadas sang, the river shimmered in the distance, and the heat of the day still hung heavy in the air.
He came as announced—not with words, but with glances. The man from the north, who had been in the city for days, had often watched her from the café across the street. Not fleeting curiosity, but quiet attention. Hanifa had noticed, but said nothing.
Today she hadn't locked the door.
He entered quietly. No words. No questions. Only the sound of his footsteps on the old floorboards, the rustle of a shirt collar, the soft closing of the door.
Hanifa didn't turn around. She knew he was standing behind her. She felt the warmth of his breath before she felt his hands—careful, almost reverent, as if he weren't touching her, but a memory that had waited a long time for him.
Outside, a dove called, somewhere an apple fell from a tree. But inside, time stood still.
His fingers glided over the curve of her waist, over the delicate line between shoulder and neck. Hanifa closed her eyes. Not out of shame. But out of trust. In that moment, everything was permitted: the silence, the longing, the slight trembling of her knees.
He kissed her—not wildly, not demandingly, but with the slow certainty of a man who had nothing to prove. Their lips found each other, and with them, the last threads of restraint slipped away.
Night came early that day. And with it, a silence that wasn't empty, but full. From the quiet breathing, the tentative laughter, the crackling of the air in which nothing was said and yet everything was understood.
The next morning, the balcony was empty, but Hanifa's gaze was brighter. There was something new in her walk—not pride, not possession, but memory. A gentle glow that was unseen, but felt.
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:smaja 
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