Elias took a slow sip of his espresso. Outside, the Berlin rain turned the pavement into a dark mirror, reflecting the neon amber of the streetlights. He looked at the last filled page—a messy, tear-stained entry from six months ago. Since then, he had carried the book everywhere, but he hadn't written a single word. He was stuck in the epilogue of his own grief.
He didn't write a poem. He didn't draft a plan. Instead, he took his pen and wrote two words at the very top, in letters so bold they felt like a heartbeat: Nächstes Kapitel
"The thing about books," she said, leaning against the counter, "is that the spine only holds so many pages. If you keep reading the same one, you’re not a reader anymore. You’re just a statue." She walked away before he could respond. Elias took a slow sip of his espresso
He felt the eyes of the waitress, a young woman with silver earrings, as she wiped down the counter. She had seen him here every Tuesday, staring at the same page. Since then, he had carried the book everywhere,
Elias looked at the notebook. He felt the weight of it—the literal weight of his past. With a hand that trembled only slightly, he gripped the corner of the next page. It was ivory, blank, and smelled faintly of cedar.