Tvaikonu iela was a ghost of a street. Sandwiched between a new glass office tower and a vacant lot of weeds and rusted rebar, Number 5 was a building that shouldn't exist. It was a pre-war wooden tenement, leaning into its own decay like a tired old man. The paint was the color of a bruise. The windows, where they still had glass, reflected nothing.
She woke on the floor of an empty apartment. Dust. Rot. Cold. The radio gone. The place settings gone. Her phone had one bar. The screen showed 11:47 AM, June 14, 2024. Exactly 83 years to the hour after the deportations. tvaikonu str. 5, lv1007, riga, latvia
Marta stumbled outside. Tvaikonu Street looked normal again. A tram clattered past. A woman walked a small brown dog. But the building behind her—Number 5—was no longer wooden. It was a blank concrete wall, no windows, no door, just a faded municipal notice: “No longer in use. Scheduled for demolition.” Tvaikonu iela was a ghost of a street
"You came back. You always come back."