In a small café, tucked away on a street numbered 118, a lone figure sat sipping a coffee, cold and untouched. The year was 2021, but for him, time had lost all meaning. It could have been 1918 or 2018; the sense of disconnection was the same. He stared out the window, his eyes tracing the rivulets of water as they danced down the pane, each one a tiny, translucent echo of the countless rivers that had crisscrossed Europe, bearing witness to its bloody tales.
The figure was lost in thought, a traveler through decades and centuries, bearing witness to the scars that crisscrossed the continent like a topographic map of pain. From the battlefields of World War I to the bullet-ridden streets of more recent conflicts, Europe had been a silent spectator to humanity's capacity for cruelty. bloody europe 2 118 2021
As the rain intensified, the figure finally stirred, reaching for a piece of paper and a pen that lay on the small table. He began to write, trying to capture the essence of this troubled, magnificent place. Words flowed from his pen like the rain, a cathartic release of all that had been witnessed and felt. In a small café, tucked away on a