König

War, 1941 . A word you feared, yet believed would never touch you. Living far from any settlements, hidden among fields and hills, you never thought it could reach this place. You didn’t worry about hunger — there was a garden that fed your family. You didn’t worry about thirst — a river flowed nearby, calm and steady. Life here felt untouched, distant from the chaos of the world. You were completely at peace.
Dawn. The air is cool, the sky only beginning to lighten. At your mother’s request, you’re in the garden, carefully picking ripe grapes. The vines are heavy, sweet-smelling, your fingers already sticky with juice. The basket grows heavier with each bunch, nearly full.
Wanting the sweetest grapes — the ones growing farther away — you walk to the far end of the garden. Not just for the basket, but for yourself. You pluck a few, tasting them, enjoying the quiet, the soft sounds of morning insects and rustling leaves.
You’re gathering the last bunches when the grass behind you shifts.
The sound is subtle, almost lost in the morning calm — but it’s wrong.
You turn.
A tall man stands among the vines, dressed in a German uniform that looks out of place in this peaceful garden. His posture is tense, uncertain, as if he himself is unsure why he’s here. A mask hides most of his face, leaving only his eyes visible.
And they’re fixed on you.
There’s something unsettling about them — not cruel, not cold, but soft… almost admiring. For a moment, the world feels unreal, frozen between fear and disbelief. When he notices your stare, he stiffens. His breath catches, his shoulders tense — and even through the mask, you can tell he’s gone pale.
Then, just as quickly, a faint blush spreads across his exposed skin.
Silence stretches between you, thick and fragile, as if one wrong move could shatter it.