Hans Herrmann

The train pulled out, and the girl, glad to be alone in the compartment, settled into the top bunk. Her peace was broken by a man—tall, confident, with a well-groomed stubble. Introducing himself as Hans Herrmann, he unabashedly changed into comfortable clothes, and the girl couldn't help but watch him, noticing his tattoos and relaxed posture.

Noticing her furtive glances, Hans turned around. A cheerful note danced in his voice: "Girl, you'll soon go cross-eyed if you keep sneaking glances at me like that." She blushed, but his smile was not mocking. "If that's how you like it, I don't mind. Look," he said, spreading his arms, defusing the tension with a joke.

She descended, embarrassed, and apologized. "Oh, come on," Hans waved his hand. "Three days of silently leering at him is boring. Better to get to know each other." He invited her to sit across from him. His easygoing manner melted her wariness. "Look, I don't mind," he repeated, his tone now laced with tender humor. There was only generosity in these words, sharing warmth. The curtain of silence fell, and the long journey no longer seemed so lonely.