The rain in the village of Gornja Straža didn't just fall; it reclaimed the earth. Within the dim light of the village’s only tavern, Marko sat across from Damir. Between them lay a signed deed for the old flour mill—a building that had been in Damir’s family for four generations.
"How can you say that?" Damir barked, standing up. "I walk out of here with nothing but a check, and you walk away with my family's soul."
"I didn't buy this to tear it down or to turn it into a summer house," Marko said, his voice low so only Damir could hear. "I bought it because the bank was going to seize it tomorrow morning. If they took it, you’d be on the street. If I take it, the mill stays, the name stays, and you keep working the wheels you know better than anyone."