The Last Particle

21.06.2024

Trebinje, Bosnia and Herzegovina

The sun beat down on the neglected vineyard, its light filtering through a few lazy clouds drifting across the bright Bosnian sky. A soft breeze rustled the overgrown grass, carrying the earthy scent of dry soil and distant pine. The once-proud vines, now gnarled and twisted, stood like forgotten relics of a time when this land thrived under the care of Tomas Knez’s ancestors. But now, like him, they had been left to rot.

Tomas sat on the sunbaked earth, leaning his back against a crumbling stone wall that bordered the family vineyard. His legs were outstretched, boots caked in dust, a bottle of red wine balanced between his fingers. The midday sun had already kissed the bottle, warming it more than was ideal, but Tomas wasn’t drinking to savor the wine. He lifted it to his lips and took a deep, careless swig, letting the burn of alcohol chase away the edges of his thoughts.

The phone in his pocket buzzed again. Another call, probably a message from a business associate, an old colleague, or maybe even one of the few people who still pretended to care. It didn’t matter. He had stopped caring a long time ago. With a sigh, he silenced the phone without even looking at the screen and tossed it into the patch of dry grass beside him.

What was the point?

In his forty-two years, Tomas had done everything society told him should lead to happiness. He built his company from the ground up, turned it into a profitable empire, and sold it for more money than he ever thought possible. He had spent years on top of the world, running through meetings, deals, handshakes, and the endless grind. On paper, he had won.

But the real toll had been much steeper. The stress, the sleepless nights, the endless expectation to be more—do more—had driven him to seek solace in all the wrong places. Alcohol, gambling, and empty nights filled with meaningless faces had taken the place of anything resembling peace.

Everything just to avoid spending one second alone with his thoughts.

Tomas took another sip, feeling the familiar warmth settle in his chest as he stared out at the forgotten vines. His family had once been proud owners of this land. It had been a source of life, of purpose, a place where roots—literal and metaphorical—had been nurtured. Now it was just dirt, neglected like everything else in his life. The vineyard was a graveyard of lost potential, a mirror of the emptiness that had grown inside him over the years.

The wind picked up again, brushing across his face and tugging at the collar of his worn-out shirt. He had fled to this small town in Bosnia, where no one knew him and no one expected anything from him. The world he had built, the world that had nearly destroyed him, was miles away now. Yet even here, in this quiet sanctuary, the questions haunted him.

Was this all there was?

The calls on his phone were reminders of a life he no longer wanted but didn’t know how to escape. He had pushed away those closest to him. His friends had turned envious or greedy, and those he trusted were few and far between. No wife, no children, no family of his own. He was alone, and it gnawed at him every day.

Forty-two. Too old to start over but too young to fade away. He had thought about a family once—children, maybe a wife who would love him not for what he could provide but for who he was. But now, even if he wanted that, it felt too late. The years had passed, and all he had left were regrets.

He took another slow sip, letting the burn of the alcohol soften the hard lines of his thoughts, blurring the edges of the world around him. Lately, he’d found himself reading more—history books, fantasy novels, anything that could pull him from the weight of his own reality. In those pages were worlds where people like him faced unimaginable odds yet somehow managed to find meaning, even purpose. They fought wars, made sacrifices, and transformed, emerging whole on the other side.

If only it were that simple.

It started out of boredom, an impulsive trip to Berlin to revisit his old startup haunts. He wandered through his former neighborhood, stumbling into late nights at SchwarzSauer in Prenzlauer Berg, then drifting over to Kumpelnest with a mix of old acquaintances from Schöneberg. The nights blurred together, a familiar loop of hopping from one bar to another, sometimes with people he’d barely known back then, sometimes alone. Berlin was wild, dirty, just as it had always been—a perfect backdrop to numb himself and stay busy. But the city felt different now. Everywhere he went, the vibrant chaos seemed made for people a decade younger. He was an outsider, too old for its manic energy, an observer in the place that once felt like home.

Then Zhou Chen reached out. They’d met at a few networking events over the years, and Zhou had heard about his exit, inviting him to Macau to celebrate. Tomas, restless and willing to try anything to fill the void, agreed. Macau felt like the next logical stop in his downward spiral. What followed was a series of escapades, each more absurd than the last—like the night he nearly tumbled off the rooftop of Sky 21 while drunkenly scrambling to catch his phone as it slipped from his hand. The days blurred, lost in a haze of flashing lights and poker tables, pouring money into casino floors just to feel something. He remembered the lowest point, waking up slumped over a slot machine, face pressed to the screen. Another night wasted, another notch in the downward slide. It was just one more attempt to escape himself—and, like Berlin, it failed him entirely.

The breaking point was still fresh, a sharp memory in his mind: waking up on the cold, indifferent streets of Shinjuku, trying to gather fragments of a night spent in Golden Gai. He’d been trying to recall how he’d ended up there or even which way would lead him back to his hotel. But in that hazy, hungover dawn, he’d felt something more—an emptiness so complete that it left him shaken. It was the kind of hollow that had only deepened since selling the company, since regaining his so-called “freedom.” Now, in the aftermath of his success, that freedom felt like nothing more than a void, heavy with the weight of all he’d left behind.

And then, he felt the call home.

Not to his Sarajevo penthouse or even to his apartment in Barcelona, where he’d spent the last few years before selling the company. No, it was Trebinje that lingered in his mind—a place bound up in the faded warmth of childhood memories. It was where life had felt whole, before the Bosnian war, before his father passed, before his family scattered across Europe as refugees. Trebinje was untouched by all the chaos he’d filled his life with.

He could picture it now: the narrow cobblestone streets lined with chestnut trees, the ancient stone bridges arching over the river, reflecting the quiet strength of the mountains beyond. Evenings there had a softness to them; the town bathed in a warm, amber light that filtered through the minarets and red-tiled roofs, giving everything a kind of calm permanence. The vineyards his family had tended for generations, the rolling fields that bordered the town, the simple, honest rhythm of life—Trebinje held a peace that he craved more than he wanted to admit.

It wasn’t just nostalgia. It was something deeper—a call back to a place that hadn’t changed.

But in its own way, it had changed. His family was no longer there, and with them, the lively heartbeat of the place had faded. There was no hum of conversation drifting from the outdoor kitchen, no laughter or arguments ringing out over evening meals shared in the yard under a blanket of stars. The house stood still and silent, the vineyards untended, the yard empty but for the shadows cast by the old walnut tree. It was quiet now—quiet in a way that matched the hollowness he felt inside.

Religion had become another escape recently. Not one he believed in fully, but one he had hoped might offer some peace. Close to the family vineyard stood an old church, ancient and weathered like the land itself. Tomas found himself going there from time to time, praying in the silence, hoping for something—solace, a sign, anything divine. He would sit in the pews, gaze at the worn icons, and listen to the quiet...

The vineyard around him, the church in town, the dusty roads of this forgotten corner of the world—they had all become part of his retreat. Yet even here, in the quiet, the noise inside his head refused to fade.

His phone buzzed again. He ignored it. Tomas leaned his head back against the wall, closing his eyes as the warmth of the sun soaked into his skin. Somewhere in the distance, a bird sang, the melody too cheerful for his mood, but at least it was a reminder that life still went on, even when he didn’t know how to.

“What now?” he muttered to himself, his voice barely more than a whisper, lost in the wind.

The bottle of wine was almost empty now, just a shallow pool of red swirling at the bottom. Tomas stared at it for a moment, considering whether to take another sip. With a sigh, he set it down beside him. The heat was starting to make him drowsy, the sun high overhead casting long shadows from the twisted vines.

His phone, half-buried in the dirt where he had thrown it, buzzed again. With a grunt, Tomas leaned over, picked it up, and wiped it off on his pants. The screen flashed with a name—Marko—his brother. Tomas stared at it for a moment, thumb hovering over the "decline" button out of habit. But something made him pause, and with a reluctant swipe, he answered.

“Tomas? Finally,” Marko’s voice came through, filled with concern. “I’ve been trying to reach you for weeks. Where the hell have you been?”

“Busy,” Tomas muttered, though he knew it wasn’t much of an answer. “Just... figuring things out.”

“Busy? Are you fucking kidding me? Last I heard you got lost in Berlin, then I hear you’re in Tokyo, and now for weeks, no sign of life. I have been worried sick. Thank god you still take care to charge your fucking phone; otherwise, I would have declared you dead.”

“Relax,” Tomas muttered, though he knew it was hardly enough to calm his brother. “I’ve just been… trying to figure things out.”

“Figuring things out, huh?” Marko's tone was light, but there was an edge to it. “You’ve been ‘figuring things out’ for months. I’m starting to worry. You can’t just disappear. Do you have any idea what Mom went through the past few weeks? You could have at least texted her for fuck's sake.”

Tomas rubbed a hand across his face, leaning his head back against the crumbling stone wall behind him. “Marko… I know I fucked up, but damn, you can’t even imagine what’s going on in my head. I needed to get away. The city, the noise, and especially the people—all of it—it’s too much. I’m just trying to clear my head. It’s a phase, nothing more. I’ll snap out of it.”

Marko sighed, and there was a pause. Tomas leaned back against the stone wall, feeling its rough surface against his back. He closed his eyes for a moment, collecting his thoughts.

“What the fuck are you even talking about? Dude, you made it. For weeks, the newspapers have been writing about the Bosnian whiz who built his company from scratch and had one of the biggest exits in Europe. I fail to comprehend how that resulted in this…” He didn’t sound convinced. “You’re not yourself anymore, Tomas. I don’t know what’s wrong, but I can hear it in your voice. You sound... lost.”

Tomas gave a short, bitter laugh. “Lost? Yeah, that might be the right word. And I guess I can understand how you don’t get what’s going on with me. Look, it’s the same as pregnancy… People see a belly or a baby and they congratulate the mother; no one even considers how many times she had to get fucked to get there. I was fucked way too many times, Marko… In the past year, I had business partners with whom I spent years, saw their children grow up, went to their family gatherings. I had these people trying to push me out of my own business. I had people I’d built up from nothing—gave them skills, a good salary, access to my network—steal from me and sabotage me. I had women acting as if they cared and making me fall for them… You know what they cared about? The things I can give them and the places I could bring them. That’s what they cared about… and I’ve just had about enough.”

Tomas chuckled with a hint of irony “You know, I envy you sometimes, Marko.”

“Envy me? Why?”

“I am not saying you had it easy; I know how hard you fought for your own life—we both did. But you had stability… You never made big moves, were never ambitious to reach for much more. You had the time to fall in love, maintain a relationship, marry, have a child… I envy you for that. Me? Where most people see me striving for success, you know what I actually did? I was running away from poverty, and I was scared every fucking day. Even now, with all the money, I feel like the same 20-year-old fuckup without money for cigarettes, without a job, spending days playing games because that was the cheapest way to kill the day.”

He stopped, the gravity of his admission hanging in the air, and Marko’s silence spoke volumes.

“And once I found Entropia Universe, started making money from trading, started making some money from freelancing—enough to survive and grow—I held onto it like a drowning man holds onto a flotsam, being pulled by the current and hoping to hold on.”

He took a deep breath, trying to calm down “Sorry for the rant… I want—no, I need YOU to understand what is going on. I don’t want to hurt you or Mom… I just need some time and space to find my purpose again and to let it sink in that I will not be broke again with no cigarettes or food.”

Marko let out a long breath, the frustration giving way to a hint of empathy. “I get it, Tomas. I really do. But you’ve got to let us in. You’re not alone in this, and you don’t have to bear it all by yourself.”

“I know, I know,” Tomas replied, running a hand through his hair. He stared out at the vineyard, the wild vines twisted and tangled like his thoughts. The weight of Marko's words settled on him, heavy yet oddly comforting. “It’s just... sometimes it feels easier to shut everyone out. Like I’m protecting you both from the mess I am currently.”

“You’re not a mess, man. Just a guy going through some stuff. And I’m not saying it’ll all magically fix itself, but you are you. You always find a way to come out on top. I believe in you.

Tomas sighed, looking out at the vineyard, the sprawling vines tangled and wild. It mirrored the chaos in his head. “I know you are right,... but give me some time, I'm getting there, I promise.”

Just then, a loud wail echoed in the background. Marko’s face softened, and he grimaced. “Ah, the little monster is awake. I’ve got to go deal with him. But seriously, please consider coming to visit. I want you to meet your nephew.”

“Yeah, I’ll do it soon,” Tomas said, a faint smile tugging at his lips. “Just give him my love.”

“And, please, don’t forget to call Mom,” Marko added, a hint of sadness in his tone. “She’s been worried sick about you.”

“Yeah, I will,” Tomas replied, feeling the familiar pang of guilt. “Take care of the little one, alright?”

“Always. And you take care of yourself, too. Call me if you need anything, okay?”

“Okay,” Tomas said, though he wasn’t sure what he needed yet.

As Marko hung up, silence enveloped him once more. He felt a swirling mix of sadness and resolve—Marko’s words echoed in his mind, a tether pulling him back toward connection. The idea of seeing his nephew, sparked something warm within him.

He picked up his phone again, staring at it for a moment. A heavy weight still rested in his chest, but perhaps it was time to bridge the gap he’d created. Take a step forward. With a deep breath, he found the contact he had been avoiding for too long.

Dialing the number, he felt a flutter of nerves—like he was stepping onto a path he had long neglected. The ringing echoed in his ears, punctuating the stillness of the vineyard.

“Hey, Mom,” he finally said, his voice steadier than he felt.

***

The call ended, and Tomas stared at the phone for a moment longer before whipping it off and putting it back in his pocket. He reached for the wine bottle again, but this time, he stopped. It was empty, after all.

He let out a long breath, staring out at the vineyard—at the twisted vines, the barren earth, the quiet solitude of the place. The wind rustled through the grass, and somewhere in the distance, the bells of the Church of St. Archangel Michael rang faintly, marking the hour. It was an old sound, ancient like the stones themselves, as if it had been ringing for centuries, waiting for someone to listen.

Tomas glanced in the direction of the church, its silhouette covering a part of the horizon . He had been there many times in recent weeks, praying for something—an answer, anything to tell him what to do next.

But so far, the only thing he had found was more silence.

Still, he stood, brushing the dirt from his pants. Maybe it was time to visit again.