The day was gray, but not because of rain. Just that low-hanging Belgrade sky, emotionless. As if it too had come to the funeral.

  At the Be?anija cemetery, people stood in a line along the path—spaced just enough so no one disturbed the silence. Some had their hands in their pockets, some held a wreath, and some only stared down at their shoes.

  The coffin was already in the ground when the last bus from Zeleni Venac arrived. A woman stepped out with crumpled tissues and a black shawl. She wasn’t late, but she hadn’t rushed either. She came to share the silence, not to say anything.

  No speech. No song. Just red soil and the rustling of pine needles underfoot.

  In the front row stood a girl—perhaps ten years old. She held her mother’s hand, but didn’t cry. She simply stared ahead, as if trying to memorize what a moment looks like when something leaves forever. Next to them, an older man, stiff and formal, in a pressed shirt with a gaze that wouldn’t move. He was the brother of the deceased. They had never talked much, but now that silence felt like the only truth they had.

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  Farther back stood three coworkers from the office. Recognizable by their satchels, neutral expressions, and that posture that says “we came because we had to.” One of them was the first to quietly step back, as if the silence would shrink if you didn’t look at it.

  There was no scent of death in the air—only the sense of something deeper: the end of what could’ve been more, but wasn’t. No one talked about the deceased. No big words. Just thoughts that remained unspoken.

  When it was all over, people dispersed slowly, as if someone were silently asking them to stay.

  Only a cross remained at the grave, and a red carnation that had fallen on its side.

  The silence of Be?anija does not scream. It simply stands. And waits for the next one.