The date of the first mass Soviet deportation from the Baltic states. June 14, 1941.

Marta, a freelance archivist with a habit for lost things, found it tucked inside a hollowed-out Soviet-era dictionary. She bought the book for a euro at the Centraltirgus flea market. The file was a single yellowed page, typed in a mix of Latvian and faded Cyrillic, listing names—nine of them—and that address.

Inside, the staircase spiraled upward, wrong. The steps were too shallow, the banister too cold, even for Riga in November. On the first landing, a single bare bulb flickered, casting shadows that didn't match the angles of the room. The walls were covered in layered wallpaper—1950s florals peeling over 1930s geometries, over something older: newspaper print in a language she almost recognized but couldn't read.

Marta tried to scream. No sound left her mouth. The waltz grew louder, faster, warping into a distorted military march. The nine cups rattled. The tea turned to rust.

She woke on the floor of an empty apartment. Dust. Rot. Cold. The radio gone. The place settings gone. Her phone had one bar. The screen showed 11:47 AM, June 14, 2024. Exactly 83 years to the hour after the deportations.

Marta checked her phone. No signal. Not low bars—zero. The air smelled of river silt and coal smoke, though the last coal plant shut down a decade ago.

Marta Lapiņa. Tvaikonu str. 5, LV1007, Riga, Latvia.