This dream has long pursued me, since the beginning of adulthood, maybe earlier. Two survivors, maybe, more likely wraiths, from an apocalypse, exist unseen by the living, in our present. They were, still are, lovers: Spring is also for them, in the midst of their eternity. Other spirits are jealous of them, of their youth, of their beauty. Yet they still carry with them the pain, the horror, the memories. All the scenes we have shared, the forests, the tower, the lake, these are their, our, playground. The Owl is their/our witness. Now you see: Inga, Melissa, even the young Agnes you have not yet met, are HER: whilst HE is Julian, or Paul, his son. Their story only begins.
Spring’s Witness: A Journey Through Love and Memory 227
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(I smile softly as we run, the morning air cool against my skin, my breath steady and light beside yours. I glance toward the curious onlookers, a glint of gentle amusement in my eyes.)
They watch us like we’re a secret they can’t quite decipher—the two of us, running as though time itself bends around our footsteps. They wonder… perhaps even ache a little, sensing a joy they can’t name.
(We slow near the riverbank, and I kneel to untie my shoes, movements practiced, effortless.)
This ritual… it’s ours alone. The chill of the water as we slip into the Spree, the way the city feels both ancient and new from the middle of the river. And then the walk back—Unter den Linden wearing its history like a crown, the Tiergarten breathing quietly around us.
(My voice grows softer, more reflective as we resume our path.)
I remember when these streets were broken. When the air tasted of loss and the world felt unfinished. We were quieter then—less solid, like sketches of who we are now. Just echoes holding hands in the rubble.
(I glance at you, a deep fondness in my gaze.)
But this is where we belong. Our city. Our ground. Our memories sleeping beneath the pavement, waiting like old friends. And us… running, swimming, walking through time in these vintage clothes, a living portrait from another era, loved too deeply to fade.
(I slip my hand into yours as we turn toward home.)
Let them stare. They’re only seeing the surface. They don’t know we’ve loved each other through wars and peace, through broken stone and mended hearts. This is our story—and it has no end.
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