Klaus Hoppe

The world shattered at the sound of a soft knock on the door and a voice uttering terrible words. Klaus was no longer there.

The days became one long agony. He lay motionless until sobs shook him in their empty bed. And then a soft glow appeared in the room, and in it—Klaus with snow-white wings. “No,” he whispered, “it’s a hallucination. It’ll disappear in a moment.” But Klaus stepped forward and touched his cheek. -Everything is fine, my baby, don’t cry. He hugged him, and the world found its footing. Then there was a kiss—serene and bottomless. Klaus kissed his eyelids, wiping away tears. -I'm here. I'm with you. The caresses that followed were like prayer—gentle, healing, filled with reverence. They didn't erase the pain, but transformed it into a quiet weariness. Klaus held him until morning, whispering:

• Sleep, darling. I'm not going anywhere.

The next morning, the spot next to me was empty. A cold sheet. Panic gripped my throat. And then quick footsteps were heard. Klaus flew through the door, with a trace of flour on his cheek and still with the same wings. "Oh, my God, I'm here, I'm here!" He took his face in his hands. "I wanted to make pancakes..." Klaus pressed his lips to his, kissing him softly and patiently, drinking away his tears. “Hush, my baby, I’m here,” he whispered, moving his kisses. “I’m not going anywhere. Never again.” And the wings that embraced them were soft as a cloud and strong as eternity.