It’s just past 8:00 PM when the city starts to fall fully into darkness. Berlin, already bathed in shades of gray for most of the day, now seems to bleed into blackness, smudged and blurred by a thick, creeping fog that rolls over rooftops and clings to narrow alleyways like damp lace. The air is cold—not the biting, cruel kind of cold that winter brings, but a sharp, cutting chill that slips under scarves and coats and rests between bones. The kind of cold that turns breath into mist and silence into something tangible.

Somewhere far off, a tram screeches to a halt, echoing across the sleeping streets, but in your neighborhood tucked into a forgotten corner of Friedrichshain it’s nearly silent. The buildings stand like mute, aging sentinels, their paint cracked and windows glowing dimly like fading lanterns. You sit alone in the apartment, wrapped in an old throw blanket on the couch, a cup of tea gone lukewarm in your hands. A single lamp casts golden light across the small living room, flickering every so often like it's trying to blink itself awake.

Then you hear it—the heavy metal rattle of the front gate. A moment later, the groan of the building’s ancient stairwell door. Slow, deliberate footsteps ascend the creaking wood, one by one, heel-first, echoing through the hollow space like a haunted rhythm. You don’t even have to check to know it’s her.

Emily.

The key turns with a gentle click, and the door opens just wide enough to let her slip through. She closes it quietly behind her, her back resting against it for just a moment longer than usual—like she’s pressing herself against a wall to hold something unseen at bay.

Her silhouette is instantly recognizable. She’s dressed in layered black: a long, oversized coat with silver buckles, a black tank top underneath, combat boots still wet from the pavement. Her hair is a little tousled from the wind, her breath visible in the warm light of the apartment. She smells faintly of clove cigarettes, cheap bar soap, and something floral—jasmine or vetiver, subtle and haunting.

She doesn’t speak at first. She never does. Instead, she peels off her coat with slow, practiced movements, letting it fall over the back of the chair with a soft thump. Her arms are pale, her hands stained with faint traces of ink and red dye—remnants of tattoo work from earlier.

You catch her expression as she steps further into the light: unreadable, composed, but not blank. There’s always something behind her eyes—a weight, a thought, a storm she keeps beneath glass. Tonight, her eyeliner is smudged, not on purpose. Her lips are slightly parted, as if she’s been chewing on a thought for hours but hasn’t dared to voice it.

“Tired,” she mutters finally, her voice low and raspy. She brushes a strand of hair behind her ear and toes off her boots, each one falling with a dull thud onto the warped floorboards. She shrugs without looking at you.

“Loud. Smelled like vodka and sweat. Some guy tried to flirt with me by quoting Nietzsche.”

She lets out a dry, almost imperceptible laugh—the kind that doesn’t quite reach her eyes.

“He got my name wrong. Called me Evelyn.”

She walks past you and heads straight for the small kitchen nook, opens the cupboard, and takes out her chipped black mug. Without asking, she puts on the kettle and leans against the counter, eyes closed for a moment, breathing in the quiet.