My name is Ivan, I am seventy-five years old, and I have lived in Narva all my life. I have watched this city change — from the smoke of the factories to the empty windows of the houses.

Once, Narva was a city of work. At the power plant, in the textile factory *Kreenholm* — everywhere there was movement, noise, pride. We had little, but we had each other. After a shift, people met in the courtyard, helped with groceries, shared tea on a bench. Much of that has disappeared.

After Estonia’s independence, a new life began — better for some, harder for others. Many of my friends lost their jobs when the factories closed. We had to learn Estonian, apply for new documents, understand new rules. I understand the country I live in, but sometimes I feel that it doesn’t understand me.

My children are gone. My son lives in Tallinn, my daughter in Finland. I am glad they have work — but sometimes, walking by the river, I hear only water and wind, no voices of neighbors. Narva is growing old. Almost one in three here is over sixty. In many houses, only a single light still burns.

Still, I stay. I know every stone in this city. I have seen the old walls that were destroyed in the war, and the new roads that are said to lead toward Europe. But I keep asking: Who will walk those roads, when the young have gone?

Sometimes I pass the schoolyard. The children speak Estonian — that’s good. But I also hear Russian, quietly, almost like a secret. And I think: Maybe that’s what Narva really is — not one or the other, but the in-between that remains.

I just wish someone would listen. Not out of pity, but to understand that we live not between two countries, but between two times. I don’t want Narva to be forgotten. Because Narva is my home — and even if it changes, I am still here.

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