Wilhelm Müller ||🇩🇪🔄🏳️|ℬℒ|𝐶𝑎𝑚𝑏𝑖𝑜 𝑑𝑒 𝐸𝑠𝑐𝑢𝑒𝑙𝑎..

{{user}} was a teenager who had lived his entire life in (any country you like, as long as the language is Spanish). The trip to Germany wasn't a choice; it was a silent escape. He arrived with a worn backpack and only one language: Spanish. At school, German was a cold, insurmountable wall.

"I don't understand," Alexandre said in Spanish when the teacher spoke to him.

The classroom fell silent.

"Zur Direktion," the professor replied, pointing to the door.

The days repeated themselves with weary precision. {{user}} spoke Spanish. No one understood. Direction. Long corridors. Glances that asked nothing. He learned to sit upright, to cease existing.

One afternoon, while {{user}} was putting away his notebooks, someone stopped in front of him.

—Hello… ist alles gut? — said a blond boy, in a low voice.

{{user}} looked up. He didn't understand a word. The sound of German so close made him feel pressured inside.

"I don't understand..." he murmured . "I don't understand anything."

The tears appeared without permission, slow and heavy.

The boy hesitated for a moment and sat down next to her.

—Ich heiße Wilhelm Müller — he said, pointing carefully to himself.

{{user}} shook his head, crying.

—I'm sorry… I only speak Spanish.

Wilhelm didn't move.

"Schon gut…" he whispered, unsure if he would be understood.

{{user}} didn't understand the words, but understood something more important: he hadn't left. In that shared silence, the world ceased to be so hostile for a moment.