We didn't leave the station that night.
The cold settled in as the bell's echo faded, and none of us said what we were thinking. Clara helped me sit up against the wall while the man who had saved me—silent and calm—cleared the space. He moved with quiet precision, kicking away broken stone and glass with practiced ease. He didn't ask how much I remember. I didn't ask how long he'd known.
The silence wasn't strained. Just full.
I held my breath longer than I should have. I wasn't sure if the air was different or if I was.
Clara sat beside me once the floor was clean. Her eyes looked tired, but not from sleep. She stared at the ground as if waiting for something to appear beneath it.
"I saw you," I said softly.
She didn't look up. "I know."
"I remember everything."
"I know," she said again, even quieter.
The man stepped forward.
"Konrad Stein", he said simply, his voice low but steady. It wasn't a question. It was a quiet confirmation, as if offering his name was an old ritual—something that still held meaning between us, even if we hadn't spoken it in this lifetime.
I looked up at him. "Matthias Reiter."
He gave a slight nod, the ghost of something familiar in his expression.
He didn't smile, but the weight of his posture shifted—just slightly. Like the name settled something in him too.
***
Konrad stood and quietly moved into one of the side rooms. I heard the faint scrape of metal and wood shifting—softly, measured, like someone returning to routine. When he came back, he carried a rusted oil lantern in one hand and his rifle slung over the other shoulder. He sat the lantern down first, then gently leaned his rifle against the wall beside him.
"Still works," he said quietly, crouching to strike a match. The lantern flared to life, casting soft gold light that trembled against the stone.
We stayed there through the night.
None of us spoke for a while. The quiet didn't feel strained—just earned.
Clara pulled her coat tighter and leaned her back against the wall. Her breath came in slow ribbons. I felt her shift beside me.
"Are you alright?" I asked.
She nodded once. "Tired." A pause. "But I'm glad you're here."
I looked at Konrad. He was seated now, checking his rifle—removing the bolt, inspecting the chamber, wiping it down with the hem of his sleeve.
"How long have you had that?" I asked.
"Few years." He didn't look up. "It's not much, but it keeps things that shouldn't get close away."
He slid the bolt back in and checked the mechanism with a practiced click.
Clara smiled faintly. "That thing saved us more than once, didn't it?"
Konrad gave a slight nod. "Maybe. But not tonight."
I shifted slightly, stretching my legs. My body still ached from the vision. The memory. Whatever it was.
"Thanks for saving me," I said.
Konrad nodded.
***
We left the station by morning.
The ground was stiff with frost, brittle beneath our boots. Mist clung low to the cracked rail beds, and the tracks vanished into the fog like memory fading at the edges.
Konrad led. Clara stayed close to me. None of us looked back.
The sky was heavy with cloud, but the snow hadn't started yet. Konrad knew a trail out of the district that avoided the tram lines—an old service path that wound behind the factories and warehouses, silent in the morning hush. We moved through it with practiced quiet.
At one point, Clara touched my arm. "How did we end up here?"
"I'm… not sure," I said.
She didn't question it again, she knew none had the answer.
We followed the trail for half an hour in silence before I finally asked, "What now?"
Clara glanced at me, then at Konrad, who was walking a few paces ahead with his rifle slung across his shoulder.
"We find Shuji," she said.
I nodded. It was the only thing that made sense.
"He'll know what to do," she added. "He always did."
Konrad didn't reply.
We reached a ridgeline that gave a narrow view of Berlin's edge—gray and shivering in the distance, chimney smoke drawing lines through the sky like thread.
None of us said what we were afraid of.
That we'd already passed someone who should have been with us.
That the closer we came to clarity, the more we might forget what was real.