Can a city hold a memory of fear? In the autumn of nineteen ninety-five, Brussels felt like a city holding its breath. A pervasive dampness rolled off the Senne River, a fog that was more than weather. It was a mood, clinging to the ancient cobblestones, seeping into the marrow of the old town. It muted the warm glow from kitchen windows where families gathered, blissfully unaware that the comf...
