Chapter 2: The Girl Who Missed Her Train
The kitchen smelled like burnt coffee and something older, something that had seeped into the walls decades ago and never left. Maybe cabbage. Maybe regret. Jordan couldn't decide which.
He stood at the counter, spatula in hand, staring down at a bowl of beaten eggs like they might reveal the secrets of the universe if he looked long enough. They didn't. They just sat there, yellow and indifferent, waiting for him to make a move.
"You are thinking too much," Fritz said from behind him.
"I'm not thinking."
"You are. I can hear it." Fritz tapped his temple. "The gears. They grind. It is very loud."
Jordan turned around. Fritz was leaning against the refrigerator, arms crossed, wearing the same wrinkled shirt from last night and a pair of slippers that looked like they'd been chewed by a dog. His hair was somehow even more disheveled than before, sticking up in the back like he'd slept on a pillow made of angry cats.
"The eggs aren't going to flip themselves," Fritz added.
"I know that."
"Then flip them."
"I'm getting to it."
"You have been getting to it for ten minutes."
Jordan turned back to the stove. The pan was hot—too hot, probably. The butter was starting to brown, little bubbles forming at the edges, and he knew he was running out of time. But his hand wouldn't move. The spatula hovered over the pan like a nervous bird.
"What if I break it?" he asked.
Fritz sighed. It was a theatrical sigh, the kind that came from somewhere deep in his chest and involved his entire body.
"You will break it," he said. "That is the point."
"How is that the point?"
"Because you cannot learn to flip an omelet without breaking a few omelets. This is not philosophy. This is cooking."
Jordan frowned. "That sounds like philosophy."
"Everything sounds like philosophy if you are paying attention." Fritz pushed off the refrigerator and walked over, his slippers making soft scuffing sounds against the linoleum. "You know what your problem is?"
"I have a feeling you're going to tell me."
"You are afraid of failure. But not in the way you think." Fritz reached around Jordan and turned down the burner. The butter stopped hissing. The panic in Jordan's chest eased, just slightly. "You are not afraid of failing. You are afraid of what failure means. You think it is a verdict. A judgment. Proof that you are not good enough."
Jordan didn't say anything. His grip tightened on the spatula.
"But failure is not a verdict," Fritz continued. "It is information. It tells you what does not work. It shows you where the edges are. It is the only way to learn anything worth learning."
"So you're saying I should just... accept that I'm going to mess up?"
"I am saying you should stop treating every mistake like a crime scene." Fritz gestured at the pan. "The omelet does not care if you are perfect. The omelet does not care if you are worthy. The omelet only cares if you pay attention."
Jordan looked down at the eggs. They were starting to set, the edges firming up, the center still liquid. He had maybe thirty seconds before it was too late.
"Okay," he said. "Okay."
He slid the spatula under the edge of the omelet. The egg lifted, trembled, held. He took a breath. And then he flipped.
The omelet folded over on itself, a perfect half-moon, golden and steaming. For a moment, Jordan just stared at it. He'd done it. He'd actually done it.
"I did it," he said.
"Congratulations. You have mastered the omelet." Fritz clapped him on the shoulder, a gesture that nearly sent Jordan stumbling into the stove. "Now do it again."
"What? Why?"
"Because one success does not mean you know what you are doing. It means you got lucky." Fritz grinned. "The second one is the real test."
Jordan wanted to argue, but the kitchen door banged open before he could.
A woman stood in the doorway, rain dripping from her hair, her jacket, the enormous backpack strapped to her shoulders. She looked like she'd walked through a monsoon and lost a fight with a puddle along the way. Her dark hair was plastered to her face, and her jeans were soaked from the knees down.
"Please tell me you have a room," she said. Her voice was hoarse, like she'd been shouting over the rain for hours. "I've been to six hostels. Six. They all said they were full."
Fritz looked at her. Then he looked at Jordan. Then he looked at the mess on the counter—the eggshells, the spilled butter, the bowl of unused batter that Jordan had somehow managed to splatter across three surfaces.
"Interesting timing," Fritz said.
The woman blinked. "What?"
"We have one bed left. It is not fancy. It is on the fourth floor, and the window does not close properly, and there is a cat that sleeps on the radiator and will not move for anyone." Fritz paused. "But it is available."
The woman's face flooded with relief. "I'll take it. I'll take anything. I just need to put my bag down and maybe not be rained on for five minutes."
"Excellent." Fritz walked over to a hook on the wall and pulled down an apron. It was stained with something that might have been tomato sauce and something else that might have been wine. He held it out to her. "Here."
She stared at it. "What's that?"
"Your uniform."
"My what?"
"The bed costs fifty euros a night. But we have a special rate for travelers in need." Fritz gestured at the kitchen. "You help Jordan clean up the mess he just made, and your first night is free."
The woman looked at Jordan. Jordan looked at the eggshells. The woman looked at the eggshells. Then she looked back at Fritz.
"Is this a joke?"
"I do not make jokes about money. It is the one thing I take seriously." Fritz smiled, and it was the smile of a man who had made this exact offer a hundred times before. "What do you say?"
She stood there for a moment, dripping onto the floor, her backpack still strapped to her shoulders. Then she sighed—a long, defeated sigh—and reached for the apron.
"Fine," she said. "But I'm not cleaning the stove. I have standards."
"Good," Fritz said. "Standards are important. They help you know when to break them."
He turned and walked out of the kitchen, leaving Jordan and the woman alone with the sizzling pan and the mess and the rain still hammering against the window.
The woman dropped her backpack with a thud that shook the floor. She pulled off her jacket and hung it on the back of a chair, then tied the apron around her waist. Her movements were efficient, practiced. She'd done this before—cleaned up after someone else's disaster.
"I'm Lena," she said.
"Jordan."
"Jordan, I'm going to need you to tell me something."
"Okay."
"Did you actually make that omelet, or did Fritz do it and you're just taking credit?"
Jordan looked at the omelet. It was still perfect, folded and golden, sitting on the plate like it belonged in a magazine.
"I made it," he said.
"Huh." Lena picked up a sponge and started wiping down the counter. "Maybe you're not completely useless."
"I'm not useless at all."
"Sure." She scrubbed at a spot of dried egg. "That's what they all say."
Jordan watched her for a moment. Her hair was starting to dry, curling at the ends. She had a small scar above her left eyebrow and a tattoo on her wrist—something in a language he didn't recognize. She looked tired. Not just from the rain. The kind of tired that came from being on the road too long, from sleeping in strange beds, from never quite knowing where she was going next.
"Where are you coming from?" he asked.
"Prague." She didn't look up from the counter. "Got kicked out of my hostel there. Apparently, they don't appreciate it when you call out the owner for trying to charge you for a towel."
"They charged you for a towel?"
"Three euros. For a towel that had holes in it." She shook her head. "Some people shouldn't be in the hospitality business."
"Fritz would agree with you."
"Fritz seems like he's in his own category."
Jordan laughed. "Yeah. He is."
They cleaned in silence for a while. Jordan washed the dishes. Lena wiped down the counters and swept the floor. The radio was still on, still humming with static, the distant voice murmuring in a language neither of them recognized. It was almost peaceful, in a strange way. The rain had softened to a drizzle, and the smell of burnt butter was fading, replaced by the faint lemon scent of dish soap.
"So," Lena said, "what's your deal?"
"My deal?"
"Everyone here has a deal. Fritz has a deal. I have a deal. You must have one too." She leaned against the counter, crossing her arms. "What are you running from?"
Jordan thought about it. The question felt different now than it had last night, on the roof, when Fritz had asked it. Then, it had felt like an accusation. Now it felt like an invitation.
"I'm not running," he said. "I'm just... figuring things out."
"That's what everyone says."
"What about you? What are you figuring out?"
Lena smiled. It was a small smile, tired around the edges, but real.
"Whether I want to go home," she said. "I've been traveling for eight months. I have a degree in something I don't care about, a job waiting for me that I don't want, and a family that thinks I'm having the time of my life." She shrugged. "I'm not. I'm just... tired."
"Then why not go home?"
"Because I don't know if home is still home." She looked out the window at the wet street. "My friends all have jobs. Real jobs. They're getting married, having kids, buying apartments. And I'm here, sleeping in hostels, washing dishes for a free bed. I don't know if I can go back to being that person. I don't know if I want to."
Jordan nodded. He understood. Maybe not the exact shape of it, but the feeling underneath. The sense that you'd outgrown something, but you weren't sure what came next.
"Fritz says failure is the price of admission," he said.
"Failure for what?"
"For... everything. For being alive. For trying." He gestured vaguely at the kitchen, the hostel, the city outside. "I don't know. He talks a lot."
"He sounds like a wise man."
"He's a weird man who drinks too much wine and has a piano on his roof."
Lena's eyebrows shot up. "He has a piano on his roof?"
"Long story."
"I have time."
Before Jordan could answer, the kitchen door swung open again. Fritz appeared, a cat tucked under one arm—a mangy orange thing with one torn ear and a look of profound indifference.
"Good news," he announced. "The cat has approved the new guest."
Lena stared at him. "The cat?"
"This is Wolfgang. He is the true owner of this hostel. I simply pay the bills." Fritz set the cat down, and it immediately padded over to the radiator, curled into a tight ball, and fell asleep. "He likes you. That is a good sign."
"Does he like everyone?"
"No. He bit a man from Australia last month. Very hard. There was blood."
Lena looked at the cat. The cat yawned, showing a mouthful of teeth that had seen better days.
"Great," she said. "I feel very safe."
"You are very safe. Wolfgang only bites when he senses evil." Fritz walked over to the stove and inspected the omelet, which was still sitting on the plate, growing cold. "This is good work, Jordan. You have potential."
"For what? Cooking?"
"For paying attention." Fritz picked up the plate and carried it to the table. He sat down, cut a piece of the omelet with the edge of a fork, and took a bite. His eyes closed. He chewed slowly, thoughtfully, like he was tasting something more than eggs.
"It needs salt," he said.
"I'll remember that," Jordan replied.
"You will not. You will forget, and you will make the same mistake again. And then, one day, you will remember. And that will be the moment you actually learn something."
Lena pulled out a chair and sat down across from Fritz. She looked at the omelet, then at Jordan, then at Fritz.
"You two are weird," she said.
"Yes," Fritz agreed. "We are. Would you like some breakfast?"
"It's two in the afternoon."
"Breakfast is a state of mind."
Fritz pushed the plate toward her. She hesitated for a moment, then picked up the fork and took a bite. Her eyes widened—just a little, just enough.
"That's actually good," she said.
Jordan felt something warm spread through his chest. It wasn't pride, exactly. More like relief. Like he'd passed a test he hadn't known he was taking.
"Don't look so pleased," Fritz said. "It was one omelet."
"It was a perfect omelet."
"It was adequate." Fritz stood up and walked to the radio, fiddling with the dial. The static sharpened, then softened, then resolved into something that might have been a song—a slow, melancholy melody in a minor key. "Tomorrow, we try crepes."
"Crepes?" Jordan groaned.
"Crepes. They are much harder. You will definitely fail." Fritz smiled. "I look forward to it."
He walked out of the kitchen, humming along with the radio, leaving Jordan and Lena alone with the cooling omelet and the sleeping cat and the rain that had finally stopped.
Lena looked at Jordan. "He's not going to let you quit, is he?"
"No," Jordan said. "I don't think he is."
She smiled. "Good."
She took another bite of the omelet, and Jordan watched her, and something shifted in the air between them—small, tentative, but real. A connection. A possibility.
Outside, the clouds were starting to break. A sliver of sunlight cut through the window, landing on the floor between them, bright and unexpected.
Jordan pulled out his journal. He opened to a blank page, thought for a moment, and wrote:
Today I made an omelet. And met someone new. Maybe that's enough for now.
He closed the journal and looked out the window. The sky was clearing. Somewhere above them, Fritz was probably heading to the roof, toward the piano, toward whatever ghosts still haunted those keys.
Tomorrow, there would be crepes. Tomorrow, there would be failure. Tomorrow, there would be something else entirely.
But for now, this was enough.
The last bite of omelet sat cold on the plate, a crescent of yellow gone gray at the edges. Lena pushed it around with her fork, carving rivers in the grease, and Jordan watched her do it because he couldn't think of anything else to do with his eyes. The kitchen smelled like lemon soap and old butter, and somewhere down the hall Wolfgang yowled at nothing.
"You keep staring at me," Lena said.
"I'm not staring. I'm observing."
"That's what staring people say." She set the fork down and leaned back in her chair, stretching her arms over her head. Her shirt rode up, exposing a strip of pale stomach, and Jordan looked away too quickly to be subtle. She noticed. Of course she noticed. "You're not very good at this."
"At what?"
"Whatever this is." She gestured vaguely between them. "The whole mysterious-traveler thing. You've got the journal and the messy hair, but the delivery needs work."
Jordan laughed despite himself. "I didn't know I was delivering anything."
"Everyone's delivering something." She stood up and carried her plate to the sink, her bare feet slapping against the linoleum. "You want to get out of here?"
The question landed sideways, unexpected. Jordan blinked at her back, at the way her hair had dried into loose waves that fell past her shoulders.
"Out of the hostel?"
"No, out of your own head. It's getting crowded in there." She turned, leaning against the sink, arms crossed. "There's a bar in Kreuzberg I heard about from a guy in Prague. Live music, cheap beer, no tourists. I've been saving it for a night when I wasn't too exhausted to care."
"And tonight's that night?"
"Tonight's that night." She tilted her head. "You in or not?"
Jordan thought about the journal upstairs, the blank pages waiting for him to describe another day of nothing. He thought about Fritz on the roof, playing piano to an audience of pigeons. He thought about the way his chest felt tight and loose at the same time, like something was about to break open.
"Yeah," he said. "I'm in."
Kreuzberg at midnight was a different planet. The streets pulsed with light—neon signs in Turkish, graffiti that crawled up six-story buildings like colorful vines, headlights from taxis that never seemed to stop moving. Jordan walked half a step behind Lena, watching the way she navigated the crowd, weaving through clusters of smokers outside corner bars, past a man selling grilled corn from a shopping cart.
"Where are we going?" he asked.
"U-Bahn. Then another U-Bahn. Then a walk." She glanced back at him. "You're not one of those people who needs to know exactly where they're going at all times, are you?"
"Yes. Absolutely. That's exactly who I am."
"Then consider this exposure therapy."
They descended into the U-Bahn station, a concrete cavern lit by fluorescent tubes that hummed like dying insects. The platform was nearly empty—a few figures hunched on benches, a couple kissing against a tiled wall, a man asleep under a coat that had seen better decades. Jordan bought his ticket from a machine that refused to accept his card, then accepted it on the third try with a grudging beep.
Lena swiped through the turnstile and waited for him on the other side. "You've never been on the U-Bahn before?"
"I've been on the Metro in Paris. The Tube in London."
"That's not what I asked."
The train arrived with a gust of warm air that smelled like brake dust and someone's leftover dinner. They found seats near the door, facing each other across the aisle, and the train lurched forward into the dark.
"I've never been on a subway alone," Jordan admitted. "Back home, I mean. I always had a destination. A plan. I knew exactly which stop, which exit, which street I'd take to get where I was going."
"And now?"
"Now I'm on a train in Berlin with a stranger, going somewhere I can't pronounce."
Lena smiled. Not the tired smile from the kitchen, but something sharper, more alive. "That's the first honest thing you've said all day."
"What do you mean?"
"I mean you've been performing since I met you. The whole 'I'm figuring things out' routine. It's a good act, but it's an act." She stretched her legs out, her feet brushing against his shin. "This is better. This is real."
Jordan wanted to argue. But she was right, and he knew it, and there was something freeing about being seen so clearly by someone who owed him nothing.
The bar was called something Jordan couldn't translate—a single word in German that Lena said meant "anchor" but also "weight" but also something else, something slang, something he'd never understand no matter how many books he read. It was tucked into the basement of a building that looked abandoned from the street. The entrance was a door with no sign, just a red bulb above it that flickered like it was running out of time.
Inside, the air was thick with sweat and smoke and the bass line of a song Jordan didn't recognize. The ceiling was low, strung with fairy lights that had mostly burned out, and the walls were covered in posters for bands that had probably broken up years ago. A small stage sat in the corner, empty for now, a drum kit and a guitar amp waiting for whoever would play next.
Lena found them a table near the back, a wobbly thing that rocked every time someone walked past. She ordered two beers in German that came out fluid and confident, like she'd been speaking the language for years.
"How many languages do you know?" Jordan asked.
"Three. Enough to get by. Not enough to be interesting."
"That's more than most people."
"Most people don't spend eight months sleeping in hostels." She took a long drink of her beer. "You learn fast when you have to. When you're alone, and you're hungry, and you need to figure out how to ask for directions because your phone died and the map you printed is soaked through."
"You don't have to sell me on it. I'm already here."
"I'm not selling anything." She set her glass down and looked at him. "I'm just telling you who I am. That's the deal, right? I show you mine, you show me yours."
Jordan took a drink of his own beer. It was dark and bitter, the kind of beer that made you feel like you were drinking something important even if you weren't.
"Okay," he said. "What do you want to know?"
"Something you've never told anyone."
The request hung in the air between them. Jordan thought about all the things he'd never told anyone—the fears, the doubts, the weird small embarrassments that made up a life. He thought about the way he sometimes stood in front of the mirror and practiced conversations he'd never have. He thought about the fact that he'd never been in love, not really, not in the way that mattered.
"I've never had sex," he said. Then, immediately: "That's not true. That's not what I meant to say."
Lena raised an eyebrow. "Okay."
"I mean, I've had sex. I've had sex. But I've never had sex with someone I actually wanted. It was always... strategic. Like checking a box. I thought if I did it enough, I'd figure out what I was missing. But I never did."
Lena was quiet for a moment. The music shifted—something slower now, a bass line that vibrated through the floor and into the soles of Jordan's feet.
"That's honest," she said finally. "I asked for honest."
"Your turn."
She leaned back in her chair, the fairy lights catching the highlights in her hair. "I was engaged. Two years ago. To a man who had his whole life planned out, down to the color of the curtains in the house we were going to buy." She paused. "I left three weeks before the wedding. Took a bus to the coast, slept on a beach, and didn't call anyone for six days. My mother still hasn't forgiven me."
"Do you regret it?"
"Every day." She smiled, but it didn't reach her eyes. "And not for a single second."
The band took the stage then—three guys in their twenties, one with a beard that looked like it had its own zip code. The first chord hit like a fist, and the room surged toward the stage, bodies pressing together, hands raised, voices shouting lyrics Jordan didn't know but felt anyway.
Lena stood up and held out her hand.
"What are you doing?" Jordan asked.
"Dancing. You've heard of it."
"I don't dance."
"Neither do I." She grabbed his hand and pulled him into the crowd. "That's what makes it fun."
The music was too loud, the bodies too close, the air too thick. Jordan stood there for a moment, frozen, his hands at his sides, his heart hammering against his ribs. And then Lena put her hands on his hips—just there, just resting—and moved with the rhythm, slow and unselfconscious, like she'd been doing this her whole life.
"What are you thinking?" she shouted over the noise.
"I'm thinking I don't know what to do with my hands!"
"Put them on me!"
So he did. He put his hands on her waist, and she pressed closer, and the crowd swallowed them both. They moved together, not perfectly, not smoothly, but together, and Jordan felt something unwind in his chest—a tension he'd been carrying for so long he'd forgotten it was there.
The song ended. Another began. The band was relentless, and so was Lena, and by the third song Jordan had stopped thinking about what he looked like. He just moved. He just felt. He just was.
When the band finally took a break, they stumbled outside together, sweating and laughing and breathing in the cool night air like they'd just surfaced from deep water. Lena leaned against the brick wall, her chest heaving, her face flushed.
"That," she said, "was exactly what I needed."
Jordan nodded. He couldn't speak yet. His lungs were still catching up.
"You're smiling," she said.
"I know."
"It looks good on you."
He turned to look at her. The streetlight above them buzzed and flickered, casting shifting shadows across her face. She was close—closer than he'd realized—and she was looking at him in a way that made his stomach drop and his pulse spike.
"Lena," he said.
"Yeah?"
"I don't know what I'm doing."
"Good." She stepped closer, her hand finding his wrist, her fingers pressing against the pulse point. "Neither do I."
She kissed him.
It wasn't tentative. It wasn't questioning. It was a decision, made and executed in the same breath. Her lips were warm and tasted like beer and something sweeter underneath. Her hand moved from his wrist to his chest, fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt.
Jordan kissed her back. His hands found her face, her jaw, the soft skin behind her ear. He kissed her like he'd been waiting for permission his whole life, and now that he had it, he wasn't going to waste a second.
When they broke apart, both breathing hard, she looked at him with eyes that were dark and certain.
"My hostel is closer," she said. "But I don't think we're going to make it that far."
She was right. They didn't.
The alley beside the bar was narrow and dark, smelling of rain and garbage and something that might have been jasmine. Lena pulled him into it, her back against the wall, her hands already working at the buttons of his shirt.
"Tell me if you want to stop," she said.
"I don't want to stop."
"Good."
She kissed him again, harder this time, her teeth catching his lower lip. He groaned into her mouth and pressed her against the brick, his body covering hers, his hands sliding down her sides to her hips.
"I've wanted to do this since the kitchen," she breathed against his neck. "When you were standing there, holding that spatula like it was a weapon."
"I looked ridiculous."
"You looked like you were trying not to want me." She nipped at his earlobe. "You failed."
His hands found the hem of her shirt and pulled it up, over her head, onto the wet ground. She wasn't wearing a bra. Her breasts were small and round, her nipples already hard, and he stared at them for a moment like he'd never seen anything like them before.
"You can touch them," she said. "They won't break."
He touched them. He cupped them in his palms, his thumbs brushing over her nipples, and she let out a sound that was half gasp, half laugh.
"Fuck," she said. "Your hands are cold."
"Sorry."
"Don't be sorry. Just keep doing that."
He kept doing that. He lowered his head and took one nipple into his mouth, swirling his tongue around it, and she arched into him with a moan that echoed off the alley walls.
"More," she said. "Don't stop."
He didn't stop. He moved to the other breast, suckling and teasing, while his hands worked at the button of her jeans. She helped him, shoving them down her hips, kicking them off onto the pavement. She was wearing black underwear, simple, nothing special. He hooked his fingers into the waistband and pulled them down, and then she was naked in front of him, pale skin glowing in the dim light from the street.
"Your turn," she said.
He fumbled with his own jeans, his hands shaking with something that wasn't nerves but felt close. She helped him, her fingers brushing against his erection through his boxers, and he inhaled sharply.
"Someone's eager," she said.
"Someone's been waiting a long time."
She pushed his boxers down and wrapped her hand around his cock. Her grip was firm, confident, and she stroked him slowly, watching his face.
"Tell me what you want," she said.
"I want to fuck you."
"Say it again."
"I want to fuck you." His voice was rougher now, less careful. "I want to be inside you. I want to feel you."
She smiled—that sharp, alive smile from the train. "Then do it."
He lifted her up, her legs wrapping around his waist, her back against the wall. He positioned himself at her entrance, and for a moment he just stood there, breathing hard, feeling the heat of her against the tip of his cock.
"Jordan," she said.
"Yeah?"
"Fuck me. Now."
He pushed inside her.
She was wet and tight, and he groaned as he sank into her, inch by inch, until he was buried to the hilt. Her fingernails dug into his shoulders, her breath hot against his neck.
"God," he said.
"Move."
He moved. He pulled out and thrust back in, and she cried out, her hips meeting his, the rhythm building between them like something alive. The alley echoed with the sounds of it—skin against skin, breath against breath, the wet slap of bodies joining again and again.
"Faster," she said.
He went faster. His hands gripped her ass, her legs tightened around him, and he fucked her like he'd never fucked anyone before. Because he hadn't. Not like this. Not with someone who wanted him, who chose him, who looked at him like he was worth looking at.
"Don't stop," she gasped. "Don't you dare stop."
"I won't. I won't."
He felt it building—that pressure at the base of his spine, that tightening in his balls. She was close too; he could feel it in the way her muscles clenched around him, the way her breathing went ragged.
"Come with me," he said.
"Yes—yes—"
She came first, her body shuddering, her nails raking down his back. He followed a moment later, burying his face in her neck as he emptied himself inside her, the pleasure ripping through him like lightning.
They stayed like that for a long time, breathing together, sweating together, the world outside the alley forgotten.
When he finally set her down, her legs were unsteady. She laughed, a low, satisfied sound.
"Well," she said. "That was unexpected."
Jordan leaned against the wall, trying to remember how words worked. "Good unexpected?"
She looked at him. Her hair was a mess, her lips were swollen, and there was a red mark on her neck where he'd kissed her too hard.
"The best kind," she said.
They dressed in silence, the alley suddenly colder without their bodies pressed together. When they emerged onto the street, the city was still alive, still humming, still full of strangers who had no idea what had just happened.
Lena took his hand. "Walk me home?"
He walked her home. They didn't talk much. There was nothing to say that mattered.
At the door of her hostel, she kissed him one more time, soft and slow, and then she was gone, swallowed by the dark hallway inside.
Jordan stood there for a moment, alone on the street, his body still humming with everything that had happened. Then he turned and started walking back to Fritz's, the U-Bahn long since stopped, the city his only company.
He didn't know what time it was when he finally climbed the stairs to his room. He didn't care.
He pulled out his journal, opened to a new page, and wrote:
Tonight I learned that failure isn't the only thing worth doing. Sometimes you just have to jump.
He closed the journal and lay down on the bed.
Above him, through the thin ceiling, he heard it—the faint, unmistakable sound of a piano. Fritz, playing to the night.
Jordan smiled and closed his eyes.
For the first time in months, he slept without dreaming.