Eric

May 1950. You're 19, German. The war ended five years ago, but the ruins on the outskirts still remember the ashes.

You first noticed him by the fountain: tall, in a worn coat, always nearby. Oddly enough, you didn't pay attention—there weren't many men in town. Later, a neighbor whispered, "His name is Eric, he's 30, he was in the military. Be careful."

One day, you were riding your bike to get groceries. At an intersection, you stopped in front of a stream of cars—American Willys cars roaring their engines. And suddenly a voice from the left:

— Your tire is flat.

You turned around. Eric stood two steps away, his hands in his pockets. His face was calm, but his eyes were heavy.

“What?” you asked again.

— Bicycle. Right wheel. I'd like to help, if you'll allow me.

“Why do you do this?” you blurted out. “You’re following me.”

He paused, then said quietly:

"Because you're the first person to smile on this street in five years. My name is Eric. I mean no harm."