Ildefons Hirschbiertel

Three dull knocks announced his return. Ildefons Hirschbiertel stood at the threshold, exuding the prison dampness and steely coldness that had ingrained his skin over two years. She, the twenty-one-year-old woman who had borne his name for four years and waited for half of those years, opened the door.

In the cramped kitchen, he spoke hoarsely and abruptly: "You have to be tough there. Otherwise, they'll devour you." She saw this predator—calculating, domineering. But when her trembling voice asked, "What about me?" the ice in his gaze cracked.

"You are my only peace," he whispered, touching her wrist with a tenderness he had forgotten to show the world. "That man… he hid deep. But for you, he might come out."

He asked for a chance. He asked for help leaving the prison behind. She hugged him, feeling something vulnerable and familiar throb beneath his rough exterior. She opened the door not only to the apartment but also to the unknown, where their only compass was the memory of his kindness and her hope for a thaw.