Str. 5, Lv1007, Riga, Latvia ((free)) | Tvaikonu

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.”

Marta checked her phone. No signal. Not low bars—zero. The air smelled of river silt and coal smoke, though the last coal plant shut down a decade ago.

Marta tried to scream. No sound left her mouth. The waltz grew louder, faster, warping into a distorted military march. The nine cups rattled. The tea turned to rust. tvaikonu str. 5, lv1007, riga, latvia

Marta Lapiņa. Tvaikonu str. 5, LV1007, Riga, Latvia.

Her own name.

Inside, time had collapsed. A radio played a soft, crackling waltz from no visible source. On a Formica table sat nine place settings. Nine cups of tea, still steaming. Nine plates with untouched rye bread and herring. Nine chairs. And on each chair, a folded document—the same as the one she'd found. Same names. Same address. Same date: 1941. gada 14. jūnijs.

Marta knocked. No answer. She tried the handle. Unlocked. Marta stumbled outside

She checked the address in her hand. The paper was still there. But now, beneath the list of nine names, a tenth had been added. Neatly typed.