“Damn,” Hans muttered, the word heavier than he meant it to be. To say he was disappointed was an understatement. He’d felt something—just a flicker, but enough to matter—and now it was gone.
“Has he been in here before?” Hans asked, lifting his beer and taking a slow sip.
“Never.” Herschel turned to the man sitting on Hans’ other side. “Have you ever seen him before?”
The man nodded. “He lives in the cottage with the red door and red flowers out front. Moved in two days ago.”
Hans leaned forward, trying not to sound too eager. “Really? Can you be more specific than the cottage with the red door?”
“You can spot the navy clapboard and white trim cottage immediately outside this bar. Navy blue. The address is Am Strom Kai 12.”
“Thanks,” Hans whispered. “Does he live alone?”
“Yes. No one but the movers had been there before he arrived.”
Hans frowned. “How do you know all this?”
“Live next door,” the man replied, shrugging.
Hans finished his beer, but the taste was flat now, dulled by the weight in his chest. He walked away from the bar, the sound of Baltic waves filling the salty air. His feet brought him almost without thought to Am Strom Kai, where the cottage stood with its neat navy siding, white trim, and that bright red door framed by red flowers.
Hans stood outside Adrik’s cottage for a long moment, heart thudding, before turning away. The porch light glowed, a soft halo against the wood, and for a second he pictured himself stepping into it, knocking, being welcomed in. He could almost hear Adrik’s laugh, low and warm, the kind that made Hans feel seen.
But the fear was louder. Every step closer to that door carried the echo of Dirk’s silence. Two years together, and then nothing. No fight, no goodbye, just a sudden absence that hollowed him out. Hans had stared at his phone for weeks, waiting for a message that never came, replaying old conversations like they might reveal some hidden clue. The unanswered questions had carved scars he still carried, and the thought of risking that kind of devastation again made his stomach twist.
He walked down the path, the crunch of frost under his boots sharp in the quiet night. The glow of Adrik’s window followed him, a square of warmth against the dark, and he couldn’t help imagining what it might feel like inside. With a firecrackling, Adrik’s voice filling the space, the kind of belonging Hans had been aching for since Dirk had vanished five years ago. The contrast was brutal—the cold emptiness of Dirk’s ghosting against the imagined comfort of Adrik’s cottage.
Hans shoved his hands deeper into his pockets, shoulders hunched against the chill. Maybe tomorrow, he told himself. Maybe next time. He clung to the thought like a lifeline, bargaining with his own fear. If he waited, if he gave it just one more day, maybe he’d be braver. Maybe Adrik would still be there, still smiling, willing to open the door.
But another voice whispered back, the one that remembered Dirk’s silence too well:Maybe tomorrow will be too late. Maybe you’ll lose him before you even try.
Hans shook his head, forcing the thought away, but it lingered like smoke. He kept walking; the night swallowing him up, carrying both the fragile hope of tomorrow and the heavy dread of history repeating itself. And behind him, the cottage light glowed, unwavering like a promise he couldn’t yet bring himself to claim.
Back at his own place, Hans sat alone in the quiet with the night pressing in. He wondered if he’d ever run into Adrik again, or if that brief spark had already burned out before it had a chance to catch. The shrill ring of his phone cut through the quiet. He frowned, picked it up, and froze when he heard the voice.
“Hans.”
It was so familiar it hurt. A sharp pain tore through his chest.
“Dirk? What do you want? It’s been five fucking years.”
“Are you still living in Warnemünde?”
Hans gritted his teeth. “What the fuck do you want?”
“I was hoping we could meet to talk.”
“Not available.”
“Then I’ll tell you on the phone.”
“Why bother?” Hans snapped, his knuckles white around the phone.
“I wanted you to hear it from me. Not others.”
“I don’t give a fuck about you.”
“I’m getting married. To Bruno. We’re moving to Sicily.”
