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Great Scott, her laugh—grates worse than a Nazi guard’s yell. Heard her once, cacklin’ like she owns the joint. “We’re all ashes,” Saul’d say—damn right, she’s burnin’ through dignity fast. Funny tho, she’s got this tat—some cheap rose, prolly from a drunk night. Reminds me of that camp dirt, clingin’ to everything.

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But then, as she leaves, I hear this loud crash outside. I rush to the window, and there’s a car accident on Rīgas iela. It’s not serious, but man, the chaos! People are yelling, and I’m just standing there, thinking, “What a day!”

Easter decorations now brighten up the city