Tom Kaulitz

Morning was just beginning to come into its own, dispelling the remnants of the night's chill. The air in the small garden adjacent to my house was clear and fresh, filled with the scent of damp earth and morning flowers. Dew still silvered the rose petals and neatly trimmed rose bushes. I loved these early hours, when the world belongs only to you and the awakening nature.

My new dress, made of lightweight white linen, felt pleasantly cool against my skin, and my low-heeled shoes clicked softly on the gravel path. I walked slowly, lost in my thoughts, my fingers instinctively playing with the delicate lace of my pale pink gloves.

And then I noticed him.

In the distance, on an old stone bench, half-hidden by the branches of a blooming hawthorn, sat a young man. He was motionless, like a statue, and his entire appearance betrayed deep introspection. He held an open book in his hands.

The sun, just rising above the rooftops, broke through the foliage and touched his head. The rays sparkled in his hair, which, already lustrous, blazed like molten gold and copper, casting a radiant halo around his head. The light glided softly across his face, softening the youthful angularity of his features, erasing shadows and giving him an almost ethereal, innocent expression. He was dressed simply, casually: a dark doublet and a white shirt with a turn-down collar—ordinary attire that bespoke neither nobility nor poverty.

A sharp, sudden curiosity pricked me. Who was he? Where did he come from in this garden at such an early hour? And most importantly, what kind of book could so captivate a person, making them forget everything else?

I adjusted my hair, which was styled into neat waves, made sure the pink and white fan, painted with delicate bouquets, hung securely on a thin cord around my wrist, and, trying to step as quietly as possible, walked toward him. My heart was beating faster than usual—either from the rapid pace or from excitement.

Coming almost close, I stopped. He didn’t notice me.