Chapter 9 - A NEW MORNING IN BERLINThe sun was just beginning to crest over the slate rooftops of Berlin-Mitte when Alexander’s car pulled up in front of my modest, sunlit apartment.
It wasn't a sprawling villa with marble pillars and manicured lawns. The wallpaper in the hallway was slightly peeling at the edges, and the floorboards creaked warmly when you walked across them. But it was clean, it was honest, and every single brick of it had been earned with clean hands and an unbroken spirit.
Alexander climbed out of the car, carrying a single suitcase and a large paper bag smelling intensely of freshly baked sourdough bread and dark roasted coffee.
He walked up the three flights of stairs—refusing to take the old elevator—and knocked twice on my door.
When I opened it, he didn't look like the stressed, hollowed-out corporate executive who had nervously invited me to Potsdam a week ago. He looked lighter. His shoulders were relaxed, his eyes were clear, and his smile carried the genuine warmth of a man who had finally woken up from a long, suffocating nightmare.
"Good morning, Mom," he said softly, holding up the bakery bag. "I brought breakfast. If you're not too busy."
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I stepped aside, opening the door wide and letting the golden morning sunlight flood into the hallway.
"I am never too busy for my son, Alexander," I replied, a small smile playing at the corners of my mouth. "Come inside. The kettle is already boiling."
