Content warning: This story contains descriptions of war that may be distressing for some readers.
Miloš Degenek can still hear the sirens.
Some days, he only had a few minutes to gather his things and run as the the air-raid speakers wailed around him, each cycle counting down like a warped, ghostly clock.
He can still feel the cold rush of air from the underground bunkers where he and his family would flee, clattering down the steps and spilling into dark, windowless rooms.
He can taste the metallic canned food they survived on for days at a time and the low whispers of other families comforting each other in the shadows.
He can hear those haunting sirens pierced through by whistling warheads and the deep rumble of distant bombs as they brought down bridges and buildings.
He can still see the bodies, the rubble, the fire, the smoke.
And he can still feel Đorđe, his…
