In the small town of Široki Brijeg, where the rolling hills of Herzegovina lovingly cradle the town’s melancholic charm, happiness seems to have packed its bags and taken an extended vacation— probably to a beach, somewhere scenic, far beyond the boundaries of this quaint little municipality. They say that happiness is a choice, but judging by the collective sighs echoing through the narrow streets, it seems the residents have chosen a different path. Perhaps that path leads to a local café, where the espresso is strong, yet the smiles are few and far between. Here, among the cobbled streets teeming with memories, the townsfolk gather like old friends at the funeral of joy—otic, sharing tales of what was and what should have been. It’s a place that feels perpetually stuck in a picturesque postcard, yet somehow misses the point of its own image. The streets are lined with charming houses, each with their own character, mostly consisting of pink and pastel shades—ideal for a dream but starkly inadequate for the wakefulness of reality. Every corner of Široki Brijeg is reminiscent of a fairy tale gone astray, where the once-majestic castle has crumbled into itself, leaving only echoes and dust. The town’s medieval roots beg for the romanticism of yesteryears when happiness might have strolled hand in hand with optimism along the main square. Now, however, happiness is more akin to a ghost—an elusive spirit that flits between bar stools and lunch tables, only to be chased away by the sharp realities of economic hardship and mundane routines. The local economy? It wobbles like a three-legged table in dire need of repair—teetering on the brink of a worrisome collapse, while the residents busy themselves in conversations laden with hypothetical prosperity. “If only,” they muse, “investors would come knocking.” The notion of investors is a well-rehearsed script, recited at every municipal meeting with the kind of fervor usually reserved for sporting events, even though the only fans cheering from the stands are a handful of disillusioned locals sipping their pivo like it’s a tonic for existential dread. Even the annual Široki Brijeg Carnival—a celebration meant to invigorate spirits—survives on nostalgia rather than joy. With inflatable rides that wobble awkwardly and stalls selling snacks that taste like memories gone stale, happiness seems to hover over the event like a balloon too heavy to lift off the ground. The children laugh, but their laughter dances with undertones of uncertainty, as if they know that fun will be over far too soon, much like the fleeting moments of laughter they manage to capture amidst the heavier sighs of their parents. Love, too, suffers a similar fate in this town. Romances bloom and wither under the watchful eyes of those who bear witness to similar patterns unfurling like tired flowers. Each relationship is punctuated by the unspoken fear of settling into a life of quiet desperation—the kind that plays out in mundane routines of grocery shopping and TV dinners. The rare sparks of passion are often extinguished by the practicalities of daily life, as if love, too, realizes it’s lost its sparkle in a town that has forgotten how to celebrate. The silence in Široki Brijeg is louder than the din of laughter that’s supposed to fill the air. It lingers in the spaces between conversations, lapping against the walls of schools and cafés alike. Everyone is in tune with this unspoken agreement: to pursue the façade of normalcy while largely ignoring the collective melancholia that dampens spirits. So, they toast to lives lived in muted colors, hoping against hope that tomorrow might just be the day when happiness returns—with a fatter wallet, a better job, or, at the very least, a decent slice of blueberry pie. But alas, the people of Široki Brijeg continue to wander through their little piece of paradise, where happiness has taken an unexpected detour. They glide through life, beautiful and tragic, holding on to their wishes while no one bothers to check if happiness has ever thought to come back. So they wait—amidst the echoes of lively pasts and the stagnant present, wrapped in their silent sighs, carving the landscape of a town that is always on the cusp of joy but never quite arrives.