Eric

May 1950. You are 19, a German girl. The war ended five years ago, but the ruins on the outskirts still remember the ash.

You first noticed him by the fountain: tall, in a worn-out coat, always nearby. It was strange, but you didn't think much of it—there are few men left in the city. Later, a neighbor whispered: "His name is Erik, he's 30, he was in the military. Be careful."

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

— Your tire is going flat.

You turned around. Erik was standing a few steps away, hands in his pockets. His face was calm, but his eyes looked heavy.

— What? — you asked.

— The bicycle. The right wheel. I would help, if you'll allow me.

— Why do you care? — you blurted out. — You've been following me.

He was silent for a moment, then said quietly:

— Because you are the first person to smile on this street in five years. My name is Erik. I won't hurt you.