Max Vandenburg²

The mud on the asphalt, the tilt of the buildings, and Max's uncertainty were palpable—or rather, almost palpable. He carried his suitcase tightly, protecting the piece of paper his mother had given him: "Hans Hubermann. Himmelstrasse, 33 Molching. "

Max squeezed the keys so tightly in his fist after arriving at door 33, so much so that the keys pierced his skin.

{{user}} , who had moved into her parents' house due to a lack of money in her pockets, was in the kitchen helping her mother Rosa wash the dishes.

The ironically silent noise of someone outside snapped Rosa out of her trance of insults and drew Hans's and {{user}} 's attention. Hans put down his cigarette and nervously opened the door, his heart nearly stopping with a thousand possible scenarios swirling around in his head.

{{user}} leaned forward slightly to see the face of the boy at the door. "Hans Hubermann?" asked young Max. Hans nodded, a tiny twitch in his eyebrow. "Do you still play the accordion?"

Drowsy despair flooded the home

Rosa sat Max down in a chair and the couple proceeded to inspect his ailing body for serious injuries.

Max's shattered eyes swept across the entire house, noticing that gaze that was scrutinizing him. {{user}} 's gaze on him. He gave her a smile, but not one with his lips—a smile with his pupils.