Concrete moon. vol. 1

I should ask Engel for that promised day off… flashed through my head before the world began to drift.

Sound vanished. I wanted to scream, but my lips stuck together. No strength. At last, mindlessly shuffling papers, I blacked out. My head hit the desk. My mind fell into an abyss.

And I dreamed—

I’m sitting on the balcony, staring up at the sky — blue, clean, unnaturally perfect, like a child’s drawing. The sun hangs motionless, as if someone glued it to the heavens.

Then — thunder. Out of nowhere, ripping the air apart, something crashes into my backyard… a bolide. It slams into the ground, flinging up torn clods of soil. My heart pounds; I run down the stairs.

My mother’s rose garden is gone. In its place, at the center of a small crater, thick smoke coils and writhes. Dust settles, revealing chunks of rock that have arranged themselves — somehow — into a ritual circle.

I peer into the pit and freeze: a baby lies at the bottom. It’s crying, but the sound isn’t human. It’s metal grinding, wind howling through pipes, domino tiles clicking as they fall into infinity.

“There he is,” a voice says inside my head. “Finally born.”

I turn. From the dark forest comes a man in a long cream-colored coat. His face is blurred, as if covered by mist.

“Who?” I ask.

“You, Klos.”

“What… Who are you?”

“He’s so small. So helpless,” the stranger says, pointing at the child. “But now he’s here. How sad… and how inevitable.”

“What should I do?”

The stranger slowly shakes his head.

“Fate will take care of everything.”

He lifts his hand — and the world around us begins to crumble into tiny cubes, like pixels on a broken screen.

“Once, I only nudged the first domino,” he says. “Yours. And after that… do you hear it?” He presses a finger to his warped lips.

And I hear it. That clicking. Everywhere — under the ground, in the air, in my own chest.

“A chain reaction. But you’re not an observer, Klos. You’re a participant. Out there, on the endless field of the Kingdom of Fatum, among nine billion chains of dominoes made of bone — where each person has their own.”

He steps closer, places a hand on my shoulder, and says — his voice trembling:

“I’m sorry that all of this will happen, Klos Heinemann.”

I look into the crater again. The baby stops crying. It reaches toward me with tiny hands. Its eyes are just like mine…

The baby’s cry dissolves into Maurice’s shout.

“Klos! Klos!!! Wake up!”

A blow yanked me out of the void.

My eyes opened with effort. Above me hung six blurred faces: Maurice, Heinrich, Hank… and their copies? Mouths moved, but the sound arrived delayed — muffled, as if from underwater.

“W-what… happened?” I asked in a hoarse whisper.

“You had seizures,” Maurice said flatly.

“Domino chains…” I rasped, barely separating the dry words. “They’re falling. Everything’s falling.”

“Take him home. Let him sleep,” Engel’s voice cut in, and I finally made him out — by the window, inside a haze of cigarette smoke. “Day off tomorrow. See a doctor, Klos.”

Everyone froze, staring at me. A crushing silence filled the room, and through it, faintly, I could still hear dominoes falling.

“Heinrich, what are you, deaf? Follow orders!” the commissioner barked.

“Yes, Herr Becker!”

Heinz gripped my arm, and in that moment the office walls shuddered and flowed, bending as if made of paper.

My partner drove me to the mansion. I thanked him, stumbled to the bedroom, and the second I touched the pillow, I dropped into sleep.

No more dreams. Only emptiness.

But when I woke — alongside relief — I felt something strange inside me. I walked slowly to the window, pulled the curtains apart, and looked at the old world with new eyes.

III

Masquerade

So many masks around us…

Sometimes you can’t even tell where the mask ends and the face begins. Ever since we built society, our lives have turned into a damned masquerade — one where you can never be sure who anyone really is. A dance of shadows, where smiles and handshakes hide intentions you can’t always read. You never know who’s standing in front of you: a friend, or an enemy playing a part. People look you in the eye and smile, but behind that smile there can be ice.

I learned long ago: it’s better to be surprised and discover someone is deeper and more honest than you assumed, than to realize — too late, with bitterness — that you opened your soul to someone who didn’t deserve it.

But sometimes the mask slips. In that moment — in that single second when a person adjusts it — you see them as they truly are. Remember that face. It’s your trophy. From that point on, you’re stronger, because now you know exactly who’s standing in front of you.

Wednesday, October 5

Bright sunlight was shining straight into my room — friendly, almost intrusive. Its rays slipped through the not-quite-clean glass and crawled over the blanket, tickling my eyelids until they finally forced me to open my eyes.

“Goddamn sun…”

I flung a pillow at the window. It hit the pane with a pathetic thud and dropped to the floor. My head felt like it was splitting apart. My mouth tasted like a litter box.

I made myself get up, stumbled out of bed, and dragged my feet toward the bathroom. The toothbrush moved in my hand like a machine while I tried to scrub off the residue of the night. Animal hunger pushed me downstairs to the kitchen, where I hoped I could find something — anything — that might bring me back to life.

13:14 — Incoming from Heinz: “You alive?”

I smirked. Strangely, it felt like I really had slept. My body was wrecked, but inside there was a lightness I wasn’t used to — like the last few days had been one long dream.

For breakfast I fried eggs and sausages and turned on the TV for background noise. The local channel was running the midday news.

“…and the highlight of Unification Day will be the traditional holiday masquerade in the main square, organized by Rosenberg’s Department of Culture — for all residents of our glorious city and, of course, our dear guests…”

I froze with my fork halfway to my mouth.

Unification Day. The cursed city was celebrating yet another anniversary of turning Europe into American toilet paper. I had personal reasons to hate that day — the day that took my parents.

A bitter lump rose in my throat, but the mention of the masquerade lit a spark anyway. Maybe I should go for once… if only because it was the perfect excuse to spend whatever free time I had with Lis.

I dropped onto the couch — it complained with a creak — and dialed her number.

“Hey, Lis. Am I bothering you?” I glanced at the clock. She was probably at work.

“Not really. Hi,” her soft voice came through the speaker. The sound slid into my ear so gently it felt like warmth spreading through my body.

“How are you?”

“I’m good. You? Did you beat the insomnia?”

“I think so. At least today I finally got some sleep. I had this really strange…” I stopped, trying to grab the memory, but the images slipped away.

“What?”

“Uh… I don’t remember.” I laughed, suddenly feeling stupid. “Okay, I’ll tell you later. Want to meet up today?”

“Sorry…” Her voice dropped. “I can’t. I have to watch my nephew.”

“Too bad,” I said, not even surprised. “Listen — Unification Day is coming up. There’s going to be a masquerade in Downtown. Want to go?”

“A masquerade?” A short pause. “Oh. I get it. Of course! We’ll go. Definitely.”

It was time to stop being afraid of the demons in my past. And take a step toward whatever was ahead.

“Love you. Bye.”

“Love you too,” her voice trembled. “Bye, Klos. Call me.”

Let this Unification Day bring something good into my life…

Lis hung up.

* * *

That evening the sun sank behind the forest earlier than usual. I stood on the balcony watching the fireball drift lazily down behind the jagged silhouettes of trees. Inside was an emptiness not even that majestic sunset could fill. I threw on my coat and went out.

Cold autumn air hit my face, instantly jolting me awake, sending adrenaline through me. It smelled of decaying leaves and damp earth — the smell of fall, the season when nature dies beautifully. Fallen leaves crunched loudly under my shoes.

I walked through Stern with no goal at all, along the edge of the woods.

My thoughts scattered like startled birds: Lis. Reinhold. Korbl… everyone whose life ended in that cursed warehouse… and the funeral that had taken place today. Franziska — Kuno’s daughter — now waiting alone for her future behind the walls of an orphanage. And that strange dream I still couldn’t recall, slipping away like fog the moment I reached for it.

I thought about the city. The world. Unification. Life. And how the damned New Law was slowly, steadily blurring European nations, eating away at the foundation of our civilization. Criminals and petty scum multiplied like parasites in this warped reality, in a bureaucracy built to suit them. We had to change something. There were so many of us…

The 21st century had promised safety and calm after two world wars. Instead, it sank deeper and deeper into filth. Eisengitter Prison was bursting at the seams. How many had I sent there? How many had our unit sent? We worked like the damned, but it didn’t matter. The bastards served their time, walked out, and went right back to it — relapse after relapse. They carried off someone’s health, someone’s life, someone’s hope. A metronome of death.

And how many criminals avoided punishment entirely? And even if prison was punishment — was it really, when inmates lived better than some poor, law-abiding, decent people fate had driven to their knees?

Once, it had been different. Once, the highest penalty was the death sentence — and it also served as a deterrent. A warning. Fear made real in the minds of the dim-witted what neither school nor conscience could: the inevitability of payback. Fear forced them to look into the abyss before stepping forward. Not all of them. But at least some. When the punishment was abolished as “inhumane,” crime began to climb.

And that evening, under the hush of leaves and the cold breath of fall, a Purpose was born in me. Simple — and terrifying in its clarity. It had been ripening for years, smoldering somewhere deep, and now it flared up, and I saw it: a new world. Safe. Just. A world where order wasn’t just a word but a law of existence.

I wanted it. Not just to dream, but to build.

Can one person change anything? History answers that clearly: yes.

With those thoughts, I reached the far end of the settlement and turned back along the street. It was dark, but lights glowed in the houses. Through windows I could see moving silhouettes. People — buried in their problems, needs, small joys. Dinner. Cleaning. Television. And they had no idea that somewhere nearby, something was being born that would turn their world upside down.

Something made me stop at a small, cozy cottage. On the mailbox, under a weak streetlamp, a surname gleamed, engraved into metal:

“Shafer.”

“Belinda?” I remembered. “That journalist?”

“Good memory, detective,” a familiar voice said behind me. “Herr Heinemann, if I’m not mistaken?”

I turned. She stood under the streetlamp in short denim shorts and a baggy T-shirt, a half-full trash bag in her hand. A light, almost mocking smile lit her face.

“Want to come in?” Belinda tossed the bag into the bin and nodded toward the house. “Tea — my treat.”

“Thanks — I won’t say no,” I heard myself answer.

She slipped inside, and I followed. In the entryway I shrugged off my coat, trying to look around, but Belinda grabbed my hand and pulled me toward the living room. Her touch was unexpectedly warm — almost burning compared to the cold outside.

A sofa sat in the middle of the room, a dark wooden coffee table beside it, and a huge TV on the wall. Heinz would’ve sold his soul for one like that. Warm lamplight, blue curtains, and a fake palm in the corner made the place feel comfortable.

“Sit,” she said, pointing at the couch. “Tea? Coffee? Or something stronger?”

“Tea,” I forced out, fighting the urge to choose coffee. Sleep mattered more than temptation right now.

She smiled and disappeared into the kitchen.

“A little sugar, please!” I called after her.

“Okay!”

I sank into the couch and almost disappeared into it. A couple minutes later Belinda returned with two mugs: tea for me, coffee for her — the sharp, energizing smell filling the room immediately.

“Thanks.”

“Nothing.” She waved it off, sitting beside me. Her voice — slightly high, but melodic — came fast and crisp, like a journalist used to catching every word on the fly.

“Alright, Klos. Proper introductions. Tell me about yourself.” She leaned closer; curiosity sparked in her eyes. “I should probably know who I let into my house. What if you’re… a maniac?”

She laughed. I couldn’t help smiling back.

“Hobbies?” she asked. “Besides work?”

“Besides work…” I watched the steam above my mug. “I want to try politics. Change something. Make the world… better.”

“Oh.” Her eyes widened — not with delight, but with sudden alarm. Her hand jerked under a pillow. For a second I thought she was about to pull out a recorder, but instead she yanked out a phone that was vibrating like it wanted to escape and answered.

“Yeah?” Her face twisted as if she’d been hit by nausea. “What do you want?! We’ve already talked about this. Fuck off forever!” she barked, then muted the mic and shot me a guilty look. “Klos, sorry. Ex-husband…”

I nodded, hiding a grin. I took a sip of tea and nearly choked. It was so strong it could’ve brought me back from the dead and demanded I finish the mug.

Belinda — without the slightest embarrassment about my presence — spent a few seconds unloading everything she thought about the person on the other end, adding a couple new entries to my swear-word dictionary. Then — just as abruptly — she killed the call. The shorter the call, the more effective it is.

“So…” she said, trying to regain calm, though I couldn’t miss the tremor in her voice or the white knuckles around her cup. “Where were we?”

“Politics, I think,” I supplied, pretending not to notice her state. Something told me that call had a whole story behind it, but I didn’t pry. “So… right.”

My phone cut in then — solemnly breaking into the anthem of old Germany5. I glanced at the screen: Heinz. Damn. I’d forgotten to answer him.

“Now I understand your political views,” Belinda smirked. “Pick up.”

“Later.” I declined the call. “Nothing urgent.”

We sank back into conversation, and time seemed to melt in the warmth of her living room. Belinda wasn’t just smart — she was disarmingly open. Her questions were sharp and genuine, her laughter contagious. No awkward pauses, no tension (aside from the ex-husband call). She admitted the cottage had come to her after the divorce — after a long, ugly court fight — which explained a lot. The house was impressive. Not many journalists could afford a place like that.

When the tea was gone, tiredness rolled over me in a soft wave. Time to go. She walked me to the door.

“Come by again, Klos,” Belinda said, and there was something in her voice beyond politeness.

“Thanks for the evening,” I replied, feeling her hospitality leave something bright inside me.

* * *

The night’s silence was pierced by crickets. Their monotone song seemed to set the rhythm for my steps along the dusty roadside. Above me hung the moon — the one I used to imagine, as a kid, as a giant wheel of cheese dangling on a string in the sky.

But now, in its cold light, I saw something else. It felt like a lone lighthouse in an endless ocean of emptiness.

Like you, Lis.

You’re out there somewhere — miles away. Just as beautiful, just as distant. You light my world when everything around me is dark. Not the whole planet… just a tiny corner of it. Just me.

My light in the pitch-black night. My bearing in the dark. The moon slips behind torn clouds, but thoughts of you remain. You’re as singular as that moon. Sometimes you appear, and I can breathe again. Then you disappear…

Lis…

I look for the moon whenever it shows itself. It’s our bridge into infinite space — and a bridge between lovers, too. The moon can connect those distance has pulled apart. Wherever you are right now, Lis, look up at it. Know that I’m looking too — and in that moment there are no miles between us, no time.

I stare into the moonlight and, on the surface of that bright yellow sphere, I see the sweet face of a beautiful, kind girl I love more than anything…

When I got home, I collapsed onto the bed. The cold night stayed outside the window while the moon, peeking into the room, threw silver patches across the walls. I closed my eyes, carrying your image with me, and for the first time in a long while I slept peacefully — as if it, and you, were keeping watch over my dreams.

* * *

Thursday, October 6

When I woke up, I reached for my phone first. My heart sped up just thinking about Lis — I wanted to hear her voice as soon as possible. After a few long rings, a sleepy greeting finally came through.

“Klos! I was just about to call you.”

“Hey, sweetheart. What are you doing?”

“Just woke up. Getting ready for work. You?”

“Nothing special.” My face spread into a grin as I pictured her on the other end — pulling on tights, smoothing down a stubborn strand of hair. “Just got up too. Will I see you today?” I asked, hopeful.

“I’ll be free around… one. My coworker and I are handing in a project, and they’ll let us go early.”

“That’s great. Hope everything goes smoothly.”

“It will. You have no idea how much time we poured into it…” She exhaled. “Okay, I have to run.”

“See you…”

After breakfast I locked myself in my office — it was time to finish a couple of reports. The last thing I needed today was Engel chewing my head off. My partner, Detective Heinrich Zimmermann, and I had decent stats compared to the other detectives, but even we had cases with no leads at all.

Work swallowed the hours — lines of reports, the hiss of paper. A sharp alarm ripped me out of it at noon. I threw on my coat and pulled on leather gloves (the autumn cold was already biting), then headed for Donnertal, to the architecture firm where Lis worked.

She was waiting on a bench by the entrance, her fragile silhouette against the gray facade. I parked and got out to open her door.

“How do I look?” Lis asked, tilting her head flirtatiously.

“You ask me that every time. And every time the answer’s the same…”

“Klos.” She smiled, and warmth ran through me instantly.

“Come back to my place?”

“Let’s go,” she said easily, sliding into the car.

I knew the week’s weight would leave me alone today — everything ugly and heavy I’d been carrying. Health scares. Dark thoughts. Exhaustion. The insomnia. Today my black sedan cut through the air as if it were moving through some other reality. Lis reclined in the passenger seat, still a little amazed.

The road brought us quickly to Stern — the forest settlement on the hills. Stopping at a light, I spotted Belinda. She was walking toward her house and, recognizing me, waved in greeting.

“Oh.” Lis frowned. She knew all my friends and acquaintances, but she’d never seen Belinda. “Who’s that?”

“Belinda Shafer. A journalist.”

“And what is she doing here?” A note of jealousy slipped into her voice.

“Living here, I guess.” I shrugged.

“Why haven’t I heard of her?”

“We only met yesterday. Work. Remember I told you about Reinhold’s case?”

She didn’t answer. For a few seconds she studied the stranger in the side mirror, and I watched the corners of her mouth tighten. Then she turned to me and said slowly:

“Pretty…”

“Lis, stop.” I eased over to the shoulder and turned to her. “The prettiest one is right here.” I touched her nose gently.

“Really?” Lis frowned theatrically.

“Really.” I smiled. “The most talented, the most beautiful, the smartest.”

Finally she smiled back. A thin, strained smile — like it was owed to habit. She caught my gaze and immediately turned toward the window.

Cold ran down my spine.

But the house met us with warmth. I left the car in the garage and we went inside. Lis hung her thin red jacket in the closet and went straight to my office, where she pulled out an unfinished canvas and an easel. I helped carry everything to the balcony while she grabbed brushes and paints.

On the canvas Rosenberg was frozen in place — not the gray, dirty city I saw every day from my balcony. This was a different city entirely: white mountain peaks in the distance, the Elbe like a mirrored ribbon, the casino — either not abandoned yet, or bought out and restored — and a ghostly gray moon in a bright-blue sky.

Lis chose a brush and went back to work.

She’d started the painting in summer. Now it was autumn, and the city felt tired, sick. But on the canvas Rosenberg stayed alive — full of strength and color. Lis had saved it forever, as if she’d breathed her soul into the paint. That was her gift: seeing beauty in the ordinary.

I brewed bergamot tea and carried two fragrant mugs out to the balcony. We sat on the bench, savoring one of those rare moments when we actually got to be together.

“You paint the city better than it really is,” I said.

Lis rested her head on my knees and closed her eyes.

“Maybe I just see what’s hidden.”

“You don’t just see it.” I looked at her. “You pour your soul into it…”

And it was like you poured one into me, too…

“You have no idea how much I need to hear that right now,” she whispered.

“But it’s just words…”

“Sometimes simple words are what keep you alive.” Lis opened her eyes and looked straight through me. “Art… is how I don’t break. I pour out the sadness, the loneliness, the pain that piles up inside. Turn it into something beautiful. Otherwise it’ll eat me from the inside.”

She hesitated.

“I just don’t understand…” Her voice thinned for a beat. “How do you let your pain out? You have so much of it…”

Her words went straight through me. I glanced at the painting — at that ideal, sheltered world she’d locked in with color — and, for some reason, my mind jumped to Ralf, who’d also gone looking for salvation in creation.

And what had saved me?

Out there beyond the balcony, the gray, sick city kept existing. But here, in this fragile moment, there was only our world — shaped by her brush, held together by my love.