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A ten-minute walk away stood Engel Becker’s house. He lived there with his daughter — Melanie, my best friend. Mel — dark-haired, gentle by nature — was a year younger than me and taught math at the local school.
Back when we were kids, little Mel and I played all day in the Beckers’ big garden. That’s how I still remember her: a mischievous girl with scraped knees in a dress sprinkled with stars. I remember Dad joking that we’d “make a great pair.”
Melanie… Fate put us together so we wouldn’t lose our minds alone. She’s the kindest girl I’ve ever met. Her father is the same, even though he’s grown into the role of a strict, hard-edged boss. Behind that mask is a man with an enormous heart.
Their family had its own loss, too. When Melanie was fourteen, her mother never returned from Old America — the plane went down somewhere over the cold Atlantic. That tragedy shook both our families.
I climbed the steps slowly. The key clicked in the lock, and the door, creaking softly, let me in.
A long, dark corridor stretched ahead, ending at the stairs to the second floor. Doors on both sides led to a spacious kitchen, a small restroom, and the dining room where the whole family used to gather. Through an arched opening I could see the fireplace in the living room — Dad’s pride and joy.
At the far end of the hall, past the stairs, a narrow passage led into the garage. There, too, a basement hatch was disguised as part of the floor — slide the heavy cover aside and you could descend a long stone staircase curving down like a half-moon.
The basement was a kingdom of oppressive darkness. A tiny window had been sealed shut with old, faded newspapers and covered by a heavy curtain. But one flick of the switch and the room came into focus: short rows of low shelves lined with a wine collection — my father’s inheritance, and his fathers’ before him. Among the bottles were truly rare vintages, and that was why the sunlight had been entombed. Nearby sat boxes of my sports gear, and at the base of the stairs an old stove was built into the wall with its own flue — probably meant to heat the basement in winter. Though I couldn’t remember anyone ever using it.
The floor was laid in cobblestone, but near the bunker entrance there was a small “island” of tile, dulled by time. Yes — there was a thick door down here leading to an underground bunker. Dad told me it had been built at the start of World War II, but Grandpa insisted it was much older. The lock had been welded shut, and the key had vanished without a trace.
The stairs to the second floor led into a wide corridor bordered by a balustrade and washed in soft light. Up here there was a large bathroom with a jacuzzi, and an office laid out to mirror my workspace at the precinct. On the walls hung suspect composites, commendations for service, and old, yellowed newspaper clippings about my father’s achievements — a silent reminder of who he was, and the standard I was supposed to reach. It was a refuge from the noise, a place that let you sink into work without getting snagged on little things. Nearby were two bedrooms and a long balcony overlooking the backyard and an endless sea of forest stretching to the horizon.
The old mansion, built several generations ago — before Rosenberg even existed — held plenty of secrets. I remember playing hide-and-seek with Dad once as a kid. He decided to mess with me — knowing I was peeking, he hid behind the stairs. I was already about to shout triumphantly, “Gotcha!” but… no one was there. Not in the garage. Not in the adjacent rooms. And then, just as excitement started giving way to anxiety, the carpet runner under my feet lifted — and a familiar smiling head appeared right out of the floor.
No wonder I couldn’t find him: the hatch cover, as I said, matched the floor perfectly. And it didn’t have a handle, so nothing betrayed it under the rug. The only way to open it was to pry it up by feel, finding a hidden recess.
But that wasn’t the most interesting part…
One day, wiping dust off the massive frame of an antique mirror in the office, I felt a small bump. At first I thought it was a sloppy craftsman’s mistake — a glue drip or a lump of plaster — and tried to scrape it off with my fingernail. To my amazement, the mirror shuddered and swung open smoothly, like a secret door. Examining the frame carefully, I found a tiny lever — something I must have hit during cleaning.
Behind it was a tiny windowless room drowning in dust and cobwebs. Bare walls kept silent about what it had been for. Dad never mentioned it, and at first I even thought he hadn’t known…
On the third floor were my parents’ bedroom, the nursery, the guest room, and another bathroom — each one a painful reminder of childhood and youth, a museum of a past that couldn’t be returned. The rooms had stood untouched for years, frozen in time like a photo in an old album.
The only place on the third floor that didn’t tighten my chest was the balcony, with its breathtaking view of the city, the sky, the river, and the distant silhouettes of mountains.
There was a second hidden room in my parents’ bedroom. I found it right after discovering the first — went upstairs to a similar mirror and, as if I already knew, easily felt out the same concealed mechanism.
But this room wasn’t empty. On shelves and wall mounts lay a sizable arsenal: assault rifles, pistols, grenades, and gear — from climbing gloves and flashlight mounts to reinforced sleeves and even body armor… A neat stack of fake license plates sat there too. All of it, without a doubt, belonged to my father and was most likely tied to his professional work — at least, that’s how I tried to explain it to myself. For a long time I wrestled with the urge to ask Engel about the arsenal, but in the end I kept quiet — I didn’t want to reveal the discovery itself. Over the years the burning curiosity faded, replaced by a certainty: some secrets, apparently, are meant to stay unsolved.
In the third-floor hallway, a rope loop hung from the ceiling; pull it and a folding ladder dropped down, leading to the attic — dusty, abandoned, yet strangely cozy and warm, lit by soft light spilling through a window. I stored junk up there: old things I couldn’t bring myself to throw away. Dad once said, “If you haven’t touched a thing in six months, you don’t need it — get rid of it.” But I kept them anyway…
I sat on the wooden bench on the balcony, cradling a warm mug of coffee, and watched the first rays of dawn. My body ached with exhaustion, but I was so tightly wound after the night’s events that I knew I still wouldn’t be able to sleep.
That train of thought was cut off by the sharp chirp of an incoming video call. A name popped up on the screen: Ralphie.
Ralph Schneider — twenty-seven, skinny, overflowing with restless energy. We’d gone through the police academy together, but he got bored fast — dropped out and flew to Pennsylvania to devote himself completely to music. Now Ralph was the vocalist and guitarist in a rock band.
He stared at me from the screen. Since our last meeting he’d grown a neat little beard, dyed his hair coal-black with red streaks, and pierced his lower lip. His ears were so crowded with metal there was barely room for more.
We stayed friends, and despite the distance and the constant busyness, we kept in touch. He came back to Rosenberg now and then, but less and less each year. Recently Ralph started thinking about enrolling in university, which meant we’d drift even farther apart.
“Yeah, Ralphie. I’m here,” I answered, tired.
“Damn, Klos — how long’s it been since I heard your voice?” His voice was, as always, pure energy.
“How you doing?”
“Great, like always. The band’s picking up speed. We play bars every week — next up, our own show. How about you?”
“I’m alive,” I said after a moment. “Been worse. Been better. Work’s draining me dry. You coming back to Germany at all?”
“No. Not planning on it,” he said — and it stung a little. “You and Alice are good, I hope? You haven’t married her yet?”
“No. You’d be the first to know, Ralphie.”
“Still not living together?”
“Yeah. Her mom insists you only live together after the wedding. And Lis… it’s convenient for her to keep things the way they are. Good neighborhood, everything nearby — work, mall, park, clinic, metro… So nothing changes.”
“Ever think about renting a place in Donner so it’s convenient for her, and you could live together — or at least see each other more?”
“I’ve thought, Ralphie. God, I’ve thought about everything.” I exhaled. “I don’t want to wreck things with her mom. And I can’t leave the mansion. I tried. Couldn’t do it.”
“I get it,” he said, a shadow of sympathy flickering in his voice.
“And you? Found someone?”
“Of course! But there’s nothing to tell yet — we’ve only been dating a month. All right, Klos, I won’t take up your time.”
“Don’t be stupid. We’ll talk again. Later.”
“Take care! It was good to hear you.”
For another minute I stared at the sky, lost in thought. Then I went to bed. A gentle autumn sun rose, promising a beautiful day.
* * *
Saturday, October 1I woke up around three in the afternoon, eyelids glued shut. My cat, Vikki, sat on the windowsill, waiting for her first meal. Her stare said it clearer than words: I’m waiting. And I’m not happy.
On autopilot I slid out of bed and went to the kitchen, cracked three eggs into a pan, poured myself a mug of hibiscus tea, and dumped dry fuel into the cat’s bowl.
Night shifts turned my schedule inside out, grinding down my strength and my health. The only things still keeping me in the police were decent pay and a long list of benefits.
After the reform, detectives had to combine desk duty with patrol. We worked in pairs; two pairs formed a “cell,” and each cell had to have a forensics tech assigned to it. Despite the catastrophic staffing shortage, the department pretended to run twenty-four/seven in two shifts: the day shift split into morning and noon, the night shift split into evening and midnight, chopping the day into six-hour blocks. But the borders between shifts were a joke — “day people” got called in at night all the time, and “night people” got dragged in during the day. Officially it was three on, two off, but who cared when something serious happened? They’d hand out comp days later, so the schedule changed every week anyway. District assignments also ran on whatever logic they felt like. A unit from Rock-Port could easily get yanked to a call in, say, Karbon. And Central bounced across the whole city like sewage in the pipes.
The night crews had it worst, because their shifts caught the bulk of the crimes. And — how do I even explain this? — most often they staffed nights with the most useless employees: rookies, or people about to retire. There were exceptions. In my case, Engel personally asked me to transfer to nights — there was a need to build a strong cell. Out of respect for my father’s best friend, I agreed; we settled on one year in that rhythm. Night hours paid noticeably more, but at what cost? Half the time you still had to work days too, if only because you can’t meet every witness and take statements at night.
Otherwise my schedule was relatively flexible. The main thing was to close the case. When I interviewed witnesses, hunted down evidence, dissected motives, consulted specialists, or ran reconstructions — that was my problem.
After breakfast and a shower, I went to see my childhood friends — Johan Krause and Friedrich Braun.
Outside, it was a little chilly. Clouds, like tentacles, dragged across the gray sky. Just don’t let it rain…
The Brauns’ house, inherited by my friend, looked like a miniature castle: a turret, huge eye-socket windows, stern stonework. I pressed the doorbell, and soon the door swung open.
Friedrich stood there. Three years older, a little shorter than me, blond hair buzzed close, a shameless grin, and piercing blue eyes — the kind that make women lose their minds. A tattoo peeked out from under his T-shirt sleeve, a pattern reaching up toward his neck — a souvenir from service in the New Law Army. These days Fritz busted his ass at the Rail Transport Administration, but today he had the day off.
“Hey. Want to go for a walk?” I asked, clapping him on the shoulder.
“Hey, Klos!” he grinned. “Sure. Give me a couple minutes, I’ll change. Want a beer?” he yelled, vanishing into another room.
“Not today!”
“Where to?” he asked, returning in a beat-up light jacket.
“First to Johan. We’ll drag him with us.”
We stepped outside. Fritz lit up immediately, blowing smoke into the gray sky.
Friedrich Braun. Fritz. He wasn’t my first friend, but he was the one I’d walked the most miles with — through this settlement and the city beyond it — turning ordinary paths into routes for great expeditions. And if the army and the academy hadn’t pulled us apart, I think we’d still be best friends.
As for Johan — he was a tall, skinny, curly-haired nerd in big round glasses. He’d just turned twenty-six, and he already had two degrees — information security and artificial intelligence. Now he made a living freelancing, still living with his parents on the far side of Stern. Modest, kind, and painfully shy, Johan sometimes seemed too soft for a world this brutal.
“I fought with Ellie yesterday,” Fritz said suddenly, kicking a pebble along the sidewalk. “Again. Jesus, I’ve completely forgotten how to tell what’s going on in her head.”
“Forgotten?” I smirked. “When did you ever know?”
“We just finished the renovation, and she got mad at me for God knows what — poured a whole can of paint down the stairs. Screamed so loud I thought the neighbors would show up. Or call the cops. I swear, one day I’ll look at her wrong at breakfast and my back’s gonna meet a kitchen knife. You’ll protect me from Ellie if it comes to that?” He winked, grinning.
I just shook my head, holding back laughter. With them it was always like this… Three years together. Three years of daily blowups, loud breakups, and equally loud makeups. They seemed to live from fight to fight — and maybe they even enjoyed it.
We approached the Krauses’ luxurious mansion, swallowed in greenery. If my house looked impressive, their property could be called an estate without exaggeration. No surprise there: the head of the family, a well-known banker, clearly didn’t skimp on status.
A familiar silhouette flashed in one of the huge second-floor windows.
“Hey, Joni — get your ass out here!” Friedrich barked. His cigarette-rough voice, tempered by army commands, carried down the street, making the crows in a nearby tree caw in irritation.
The window flew open, and Johan appeared.
“Can’t. I have to clean my room,” he replied quietly, almost monotone, as if apologizing to everyone — including the crows.
“Get out here, I said!” Fritz kept at it, then turned to me with a sly grin. “All right, Klos. We’re taking him by storm.”
I laughed, already anticipating the show.
Fritz didn’t make us wait. With the agility of an alley cat he climbed the fence and balanced his way toward the garage roof.
“Careful, hero!” I shouted. “Don’t break your neck. Save that for Ellie.”
“All under control!” Friedrich called back. He edged closer, then jumped — caught the roofline, hauled himself up. Once he was on top, he moved to Johan’s window, pulled himself up by the sill, and slipped right into the room.
“You’re insane!” someone yelled inside, and I laughed even harder.
About ten minutes later, both of them came down to the street.
“Mission accomplished!” Fritz announced solemnly.
Judging by his face, Johan wasn’t thrilled about this “mission.”
“Where are we going?” Joni asked, buttoning his jacket as he walked. “But I can’t stay long, okay? I really have a lot to do.”
“We’ll see,” Fritz drawled.
“Let’s just walk around Stern,” I suggested, feeling the stale knot of anxiety in my chest finally begging to come out.
The autumn air — cool, sharp with pine — cleared my head, washing away what was left of the night. Childhood friends walked beside me — the best company for a stroll. And it would’ve been a sin to stay indoors: soon the weather would turn for good, and days like this would be worth their weight in gold.
We wandered until dusk. Friedrich, as usual, entertained us with army stories, weaving a fresh complaint about Ellie into each one. Those often comic tales would give way to Joni’s student-life memories, which always began with “So my neighbor once…” or “One time Hein pulled this…” Johan, it seemed, did nothing but write code. Thank God he never tried to impress us with descriptions of that “exciting” process.
There was a time when we walked these same streets — right here, in this settlement — carefree, not hiding pain behind stories. The world felt different. And at home my parents were waiting…
The heavy memories wouldn’t let go, no matter how hard I tried to throw them out. And police work only fed that depressive spiral, slowly burning out the boy with the easy smile. It’s hard to laugh when every week you run into beasts wearing human masks. This world, warped by human cruelty, I’d been quietly hating for a long time.
By the end of the walk I finally decided to talk — to tell them about last night in Rock-Port and how tired I was of all of it… But the conversation was cut short by Engel’s call — his “Where are you?” sounded, as always, anxious.
“Just wanted to stop by for coffee, Klos,” the commissioner said, inviting himself.
“Fine. Come by in half an hour,” I replied — and after saying goodbye to my friends, I headed home.
* * *
My house. A gigantic three-story mansion. Just as big as it was useless and empty.
Every time I crossed the threshold, I caught myself thinking the same thing: I should sell it and move into a normal apartment somewhere in Rosenberg. But… I can’t. A buyer for that kind of property would take years. And more than that, it was my home — everything that was left of our family. Spacious rooms, tall ceilings, endless hallways you wander through with nowhere to land, slowly realizing that in solitude you’re going a little crazy without even noticing. Slowly, day after day…
Once the house had been full of life. Ghosts of a happy past kept appearing before my eyes, and then I’d dive headfirst into memories — bright as photographs. Sometimes I ran from them. I always envied people who don’t know that pain — when you can’t even listen to music anymore because almost every sound or word is tied to the past, but silence is unbearable too — the walls close in. In those moments the only salvation feels like escape — to where there are people, where other voices drown out your thoughts. And you return home only to feed Vikki and collapse into bed.
The mansion had always been the pride of every Heinemann — except me. Sometimes the thought crept in that one day I’d still build a family and continue the line. Then maybe this pile of building materials would become dear to me and gain some new meaning, not soaked in the past… if, of course, by then I hadn’t moved out. But every time the idea of renting a place came up, something stopped me from acting.
I went into the kitchen and switched on the kettle while waiting for Engel. My gaze fell on the wooden clock shaped like an owl: its eyes darted left and right in time with the pendulum. There was still plenty of time before I had to leave for work.
It wasn’t too late to call Alice.
I grabbed my phone and tapped her name.
“Hey. What are you doing?” I asked, sinking onto the soft living-room couch.
“Hi, Klos! Dyeing my mom’s hair. You?”
A smile showed up on its own just from hearing her.
“Waiting for Engel. He said he’d stop by.”
“Got it.” Her voice went distant — she’d probably pinned the phone to her shoulder or put it on speaker.
I paused, drawing in air like before a dive into ice water.
“Will I see you this weekend?” I asked, already knowing the answer.
“Probably… yeah. Just — first I have to stop by my sister’s. And then… we’ll definitely meet.”
A delay. The most reliable form of refusal.
“Great, Lis,” I managed, so quietly the words barely reached the receiver. “How do you feel?”
“Eh… My head’s a little sore.”
“Again?” I blurted. She complained about headaches often, and sometimes it felt like a cover to push meetings back.
“Don’t worry. It’s my blood pressure. Weather’s probably changing.”
Just then the doorbell rang — sharp, like an alarm.
“Company?” Lis asked, curiosity flickering in her voice.
“Looks like Engel.”
“Mm.” She fell silent. “Well… then I won’t distract you. Good luck.”
“Good night.”
The phone screen went dark. I tossed it onto the couch and went to the door.
At the door, under the weak yellow spill of the streetlamp, stood Commissioner Engel Becker — tired, rumpled, dark circles under his eyes.
“Did something happen?” I asked, alarmed.
“Yeah, Klos. I’m dead tired. My back’s killing me…” He smiled without warmth and stepped inside. “Dropped my car off at the shop. You mind giving me a lift?”
“Of course. Want coffee?”
“You even have to ask?” He shrugged off his jacket and headed into the living room.
Engel loved coffee even more than I did. Not surprising — the commissioner worked practically around the clock.
I went to the kitchen and started the machine. The weather had turned fast. Outside, wind pushed waves through the grass; trees swayed like they wanted to tear themselves out by the roots. The sky thickened into lead. In moments like this, all you wanted was to wrap up in a blanket and not cross the threshold.
“How’s Melanie?” I asked, carefully carrying two steaming cups. The smell of fresh coffee filled the room like a warm wave.
“Ask her yourself!” Engel snapped. “She misses you. Why’d you stop coming by?”
“I don’t know… The days started to feel suspiciously short,” I smirked, taking a burning sip.
Engel settled into the corner of the couch — his usual spot — as if he’d grown roots there over the years. Silence hung, broken only by the steady tick of the kitchen clock.
“Ah… I remember sitting on this same couch with your father,” he said, slipping into memory. “Feels like yesterday… Every Saturday we’d grab beers and switch off, staring at the TV. Those were days…”
I dropped my gaze, and in that instant the floor vanished beneath me and I fell into my memory archives — twenty-seven cabinets of neatly filed folders. One cabinet for every damn year of my life. I’d started structuring my memories back in school, when I got into psychology. At first I kept something like a diary: at the end of each month I wrote down everything significant and saved it as text files on my computer. But over time I learned to manage without writing. Psychological practices let you adjust memories — make some brighter, dim others.
Engel looked at me as if he wasn’t seeing me, but Till. Maybe in my features he saw a piece of my father and hoped I’d grow into the same man. Sometimes it felt like Engel was unconsciously shaping me into that man — his best friend’s copy…
To escape the pressure of that thought, I abruptly shifted the topic to work. We talked about recent events, and the conversation inevitably dragged us back to the Korbl case.