The frozen branches of the magnolia tree jutted out from the fog as the three of us left the house that December morning. The cold struck hard, and the darkness was menacing. The city had been without electricity for several weeks. The streets lay empty—only a stray dog and the occasional person in the dark on their way to work. From a few chimneys, smoke rose and mingled with the fog, making it even denser. I felt nauseous from the metallic smell, from the smoke of the cellulose factory that laid its gray haze over the city every winter. I felt nauseous from what lay ahead. They followed me to the station. After that, I would continue alone.

In my only bag, besides a few warm garments, I had a hand-woven Palestinian scarf from Amir, the Palestinian exchange student in Banja Luka, and a workbook in Mathematical Analysis, Part II. In the dawn of the war, Enes and I used to sit with Tom Waits and a few bottles of wine, open the book at random, pick a problem, and compete to see who could solve it the fastest.

Then the war broke out.

That same winter, in another reality, Smilla will put it into words:

Do you know what lies down under mathematics? Down under mathematics lie the numbers. If someone asked me what makes me truly happy, I would answer: The numbers do. Snow and ice and numbers. And do you know why? Because the number system is like human life. To begin with, you have the natural numbers. They are the ones that are whole and positive. The small child’s numbers. But human consciousness expands. The child discovers longing, and do you know what the mathematical expression for longing is? It is the negative numbers. The formalization of the feeling that you are missing something.

The landscape opened up as the fog lifted a few hours later and the train rolled somewhere through Hungary. The compartment was cramped and worn; there were three of us in there.

Beside me sat an elderly woman in a dark blue coat, with eyes that were both watchful and disturbingly clear. She talked almost incessantly, telling strange stories—including how she sat on her sofa every evening, put on Schubert, and knitted.

— Nothing can beat that feeling, she said, as if she knew something the rest of us didn’t even suspect.

Opposite us sat a man with headphones. He said nothing for several hours. His gaze was sorrowful and distant. I thought he looked like a man listening to Arvo Pärt.

The conductor came in and asked for the tickets. Then it hit me—my ticket only reached as far as Szczecin. A cold fear spread through my body. I suddenly realized I didn’t know where I was going. I looked out the window: endless, empty fields. I closed my eyes.

It was the screeching of metal and the jolt of the train that jerked me out of sleep. For a moment, I didn’t remember where I was. The light had changed. Had I slept through the entire night? Outside the window stood the sign: Szczecin.

I stepped off onto a nearly empty platform. The air was gray and still. The cold cut through my body. I opened my bag and took out my Palestinian scarf. The fabric was coarse against my cheek, and I felt the scent of home.

I went to look for the ferries to Sweden.