On my return home I see Josipa Valenta known as Pina on the parking lot left by the missing house neighboring my own, and I walk up to her for a chat. Her house is three doors down Borgo. A moment later we are joined by Milan Babić, whose house is five doors up Borgo. She is in her early eighties and he in his early seventies. “Hey,” I grin at them, “now we have a crowd in our street!” They laugh and the conversation turns to how few of us can still be found in town. “And ever fewer,” Pina shakes her head. “It doesn’t matter whether we are five or five-hundred,” chuckles Milan, “for we are all onto ourselves.” Pina and I nod in silence. “All onto ourselves,” Milan repeats with a sigh. A moment later the small crowd breaks up.