Chapter 55: Running with Hans
The predawn dark was a wool blanket, thick and quiet. Yvonne surfaced from a dreamless sleep to a persistent, rhythmic pressure on her arm. Thump. Thump. Thump. Hans’s tail, beating against the mattress. She cracked an eye open. In the grey gloom, she could make out the solid outline of him sitting bolt upright beside the bed, his ears pricked forward, a faint whine building in his throat.
“No,” she mumbled into her pillow, pulling the duvet over her head. “It’s not time.”
The whine intensified, accompanied now by a soft, clicking snorf as he nudged her elbow with his cool, damp nose. The digital clock on the nightstand glowed 5:17. Victoria’s side of the bed was a cold, smooth expanse of linen. The memory of Tegel’ hollow silence whispered back.
Thump. Thump. Thump.
With a groan that originated in her soul, Yvonne pushed herself upright. Her glasses were a blur on the nightstand. She fumbled them on, and the room snapped into focus: the chaos of her bedside table, a stack of plant-care books, a single sock on the floor. Hans’s entire body began to wiggle with barely contained propulsion.
“It’s not a walk, is it?” she asked him, her voice gravelly with sleep.
He let out a single, sharp yip, spun in a tight circle, and trotted to the bedroom door, looking back with an expression of pure, impatient expectation. The Run. Victoria had christened it with a capital letter. Every few days, Hans’s terrier wiring overloaded on cozy café atmosphere and he required a hard, mind-clearing sprint. Victoria, with her long, easy strides and sporty leggings, had always been the designated conductor of this ritual. Yvonne’s role was to wave from the window with a coffee.
“Fine,” she sighed, swinging her legs out. The floorboards were cool under her feet. She pulled on the nearest clothes—a pair of worn, soft joggers that had seen more laundry days than exercise, and a loose sweatshirt over her sleep tank. She laced up her sneakers, the ones she used for market runs and building flat-pack furniture. They looked absurdly pristine.
The stairs down to the café were dark and familiar. She disarmed the alarm, its soft beep echoing in the empty space. The chairs were still upturned on tables. The air smelled of yesterday’s coffee and lemon. Hans danced by the front door, nails skittering on the tile. She clipped the leash on, took a deep breath, and stepped out into the blue hour.
The street was a study in monochrome. Mist curled from sewer grates. The last stubborn star hung over the rooftops. The air had a clean, metallic bite. Hans strained forward, leash taut, every muscle coiled.
“Easy,” Yvonne muttered. She stretched her calves, feeling a pop in her knee that was more pronouncement than promise. She’d been meaning to do something about that.
Hans looked back at her, and in the dim light, she could swear he smirked.
Then he launched.
The first ten seconds were pure, undignified chaos. Yvonne was yanked off the curb, her body lagging behind the committed forward momentum of the dog. Her arms windmilled. A startled “Oof!” escaped her lips. The cobblestones were treacherous. Her lungs, accustomed to steam and sugar-dust, burned with the first cold gulp of air.
“Slow down, you maniac!” she gasped.
Hans paid no heed. He had a route. He always had a route. Down her street, a hard left at the Späti whose metal shutter was still down, into the wider avenue lined with linden trees just beginning to scent the air. His pace was relentless, a steady, ground-eating trot that was faster than a walk and just shy of a full gallop. Yvonne’s body protested in a chorus of creaks. Her thighs, soft from years of standing, began to fire unfamiliar signals. A stitch needled her side.
She focused on the slap of her soles on the pavement, the rhythmic huff-huff of her own breath. The city at this hour was a different creature. Delivery vans rumbled in the distance. A street sweeper hissed by on a parallel road. A few night-owls, blurred and slow, shuffled home. The fairy-lit windows of her own café fell away behind her.
“I hate this,” she puffed to the empty air. “I’m a coffee person. A plant person. My cardio is… anxiety.”
But her body, betrayingly, began to adjust. The initial fire in her chest settled into a manageable ache. Her legs found a rhythm, clumsy but persistent. The cool air began to feel less like an assault and more like a balm, flushing the sleep and the lingering staleness of grief from her pores. She passed the little playground where she sometimes sketched leaf patterns. Passed the kebab shop that always smelled of onions and lamb at midnight.
Her mind, which had been a tangled knot of invoices, renovation timelines, and the phantom scent of Victoria’s shampoo, began to quiet. There was no room for it. There was only the burn in her lungs, the pull in her hamstrings, the steady tap-tap-tap of Hans’s paws ahead of her. She was reduced to a simple, animal state: movement and breath.
She thought of Victoria doing this. Victoria’s longer legs covering the ground with enviable efficiency. Her focused expression, the cord of her headphones trailing. She had made it look effortless, a seamless part of the weekend. Yvonne had watched from the window, a mug warming her hands, feeling a fond, detached admiration.
Now, she felt a raw, jolting connection. This was the price. This was the effort. This was the muscle and grit required to keep this small, stubborn life running in someone’s absence. She wasn’t just watering the plants. She was doing The Run.
“You utter bitch,” she wheezed, but the curse was directed at Victoria, laced with a surprising strand of fierce affection. “We should have gotten a… a pug...”
As if he understood, Hans chose that moment to surge forward, pulling her into a slight downhill stretch. Her feet struggled to keep up. The impact traveled up her spine. A sharp twinge shot through her right hip—a muscle she was confident hadn’t existed two days ago.
But she didn’t stop. She pushed into the pain, into the discomfort. Sweat prickled at her temples, dampened the neckline of her sweatshirt. Her messy dreadlocks felt heavy on her nape. The world narrowed to the path ahead, the sound of her own labor, and the dependable, pulling force of the creature leading her.
They looped around the square, past the still-dark bakery, the first glow of ovens within. The sky was bleeding now from indigo to a weak lavender. Hans finally began to slow, his pace easing from a trot to a purposeful walk, his tongue lolling. Yvonne stumbled to a halt, bracing her hands on her knees. Her heart was a frantic drum against her ribs. Every fiber of her being buzzed with a strange, exhausted vitality.
She straightened up, wiping sweat from her upper lip. The square was coming to life. A light flicked on in an upper apartment. An early bus sighed to a stop on the far side. She looked at Hans, who was now sniffing a lamppost with profound academic interest, utterly composed.
“Okay,” she breathed, the word forming a small cloud in the chill. “Okay. I see the appeal.”
The walk back was a different experience. Her body felt used, loosened, every ache a testament to effort. The smells of the waking city—fresh bread, wet asphalt, blooming lilac from a hidden courtyard—seemed sharper. The colors were returning. The tight ball of anxiety in her stomach had dissolved, replaced by a physical fatigue that was, in its way, peaceful.
She unlocked the café door, the warmth enveloping them. Hans padded immediately to his water bowl, lapping noisily. Yvonne leaned against the counter, listening to the familiar hum of the refrigeration unit. She rolled her shoulders, feeling the protest of new muscles.
Upstairs, her phone would be lighting up with a good morning text from London. The day’s work awaited—the delivery, the renovation meeting with Janusz, Vita’s cheerful chatter, Joost’s dramatic accounting. It all felt suddenly more manageable. She had met the dawn on its own terms and survived. More than survived.
She filled the kettle for her pre-opening tea, her hands steady. The ghost of Victoria was in the empty space, in the memory of a longer stride on the same route. But Yvonne was here, in her own body, sweating in her own clothes, her feet planted firmly on her own familiar floor. The absence was a hole, yes. But she was learning, muscle by reluctant muscle, how to move around its edges, how to carry its weight. She looked at Hans, now curled contentedly on his bed.
“Tomorrow,” she told him, “we’re getting you a hamster wheel.”
He thumped his tail once, slowly, and closed his eyes.
He thumped his tail once, slowly, and closed his eyes. The high from the run lingered in Yvonne’s veins, a fizzy, exhausted clarity. She climbed the back stairs to her apartment, her muscles already beginning to stiffen, and stood under a shower so hot it pinkened her skin.
Steam clouded the mirror as she dressed in clean, soft clothes. She twisted her damp dreadlocks into a loose bun, secured with a pencil from the counter. Downstairs, she moved through the opening rituals with a new, sore precision, each grind of beans and wipe of the counter feeling earned.
Joost arrived first, bursting through the door with the morning chill clinging to his jacket. “The world is a bleak tapestry of mediocrity,” he announced, unwinding a long, striped scarf. “My bicycle tire is flatter than Vita’s attempts at latte art. I require fortification.”
“The machine is warming up,” Yvonne said, pushing a mug toward him. “No dramatic pronouncements until after your first sip.”
Vita arrived moments later, her cheeks flushed from the wind.“Good morning!The new window, it looks sad covered in plastic. Like a giant blind eye.” She stashed her bag and immediately began tying her apron, her movements a cheerful kinetic energy. The café began to fill with the sounds of readiness: the gurgle of the industrial brewer, the clatter of cups, the low hum of the refrigerator.
The early rush came as it always did, a wave of tradespeople and pre-work commuters needing efficient fuel. Yvonne’s body complained with every twist of the portafilter, but the rhythm soothed her. She was a gear in a well-oiled machine, pouring, steaming, exchanging muted pleasantries. Her mind stayed blessedly empty of everything but the next order.
As the clock ticked past nine-thirty, the pace settled into a gentle lull. The door chimed, and Katarina Blumschein entered with the focused air of a general surveying a camp. She wore linen in various shades of ecru, a single hand-thrown ceramic bead on a leather cord around her neck. Her eyes swept the room, lingering on the sheet of plastic covering the new archway to the laundry.
“Yvonne,” she said, her voice calm yet penetrating.“The disruption. Is it affecting the bio-rhythm of your sourdough starter? I can sense electromagnetic imbalances from renovation tools.”
Before Yvonne could answer, the door chimed again. Kazi slipped in, a stark contrast in a fuzzy oversized sweater the color of cotton candy and black vinyl shorts. Her teal twin tails were perfectly coiled, her face softened by a layer of subtle, camera-ready makeup. She gave Yvonne a small, real smile and glided to her usual corner table, pulling out a Nintendo Switch.Katarina’s gaze followed her, a slight frown forming. “The artificial light from those screens,” she murmured, but not quietly enough. She turned back to Yvonne at the counter.“The award funding—you’re ensuring the materials are non-toxic, yes? Off-gassing is a silent killer of mitochondrial function.”
Vita, who was clearing a nearby table, interjected with nervous brightness.“Janusz uses good paints!Very ecological. He showed me the cans.” She glanced helplessly at Yvonne, holding a stack of dirty plates.
“I have the data sheets,” Yvonne said, nodding to Vita in thanks. “They’re in the office if you’d like to see them, Katarina.” She hoped the offer would satisfy, or at least redirect.
Katarina opened her mouth, likely to ask about volatile organic compounds, when the door jingled a third time. A young woman in her early twenties, with round glasses and a tote bag that read “Podcasts Are My Love Language,” stepped in. She scanned the room, her eyes widening behind her lenses.
Her gaze jumped from Katarina, standing at the counter, to Kazi, curled in the corner. She froze, one hand flying to her mouth.“Oh my god,” she whispered, then louder, “Oh my god. You’re… you’re WholeGrainLife.” She stared at Katarina. “And you’re… Cafuné.” She looked at Kazi.
Kazi’s head snapped up, her placid, stream-ready expression shifting into one of guarded wariness. Katarina straightened, her scrutinizing frown melting into a polished, professional smile of recognition.
“You’re a follower?” Katarina asked, her voice now warm, resonant.
“I’ve done your seven-day mindful muesli challenge! And you,” the fan said, turning to Kazi, her voice hushed with awe, “I watch your cozy study streams every night. You got me through my finals.” She clutched her tote bag to her chest. “I can’t believe you’re in the same place.This is so meta.”
An awkward, thick silence descended. Vita stood frozen, holding her stack of plates.Joost peered from behind the espresso machine, his eyebrows raised. The fan looked between her two idols, seemingly willing them to interact.
Katarina broke the silence, turning toward Kazi’s corner.“You stream study sessions?How interesting. That must require tremendous discipline with the distractions of an audience.” It wasn’t entirely a compliment, but it was an opening.Kazi set her Switch down slowly. She assessed Katarina, the real person, not the influencer. “It’s a performance,” she said, her voice lower, more direct than her on-stream cadence.“The focus is the product. It’s not really for me.”
“A performance of wellness,” Katarina nodded, as if filing that away. “Mine is a performance of… integrated living.The performance is supposed to be the reality. It’s exhausting.”
Another beat of silence passed.The fan watched, mesmerized. Kazi gestured to the empty chair at her small table.“You can tell her about your muesli. If you want.”
Katarina hesitated for only a second before picking up her mug of nettle tea and crossing the room.She sat, arranging her linen folds precisely. The fan scurried over, pulling a notebook from her bag.“Do you mind if I…? This is so cool.”
From behind the counter, Yvonne watched the tableau unfold. Joost sidled up next to her, wiping a steam wand.“Collision of worlds,” he muttered. “The algorithm made flesh in our humble café.Should I curate a special ‘influencer blend’? Notes of authenticity and niche appeal?”
“Just make sure they’re happy,” Yvonne said softly. She listened to the conversation drifting from the corner.
“The comments about my son’s lunchbox,” Katarina was saying, her voice a mix of pride and fatigue. “Every chopped carrot is a political statement.”
“Try reading chat when you mis-solve a calculus problem,” Kazi replied, a dry edge to her voice.“It’s either marriage proposals or declarations that you’re a fraud. No in-between.” She took a sip of her milky coffee. “Your lemon meringue pie review is why I came here the first time.”
Katarina looked genuinely surprised. “You watch my food content?”
“Sometimes.” Kazi shrugged.“It’s calming. Even when you’re intense. It’s… consistent.”
The fan scribbled furiously, looking back and forth as if watching a tennis match of personal brands. A connection, thin and tentative, was being spun over the table—not as influencers, but as two people who knew the strange pressure of building a life in public view.Yvonne felt a faint, unexpected warmth in her chest. Her café, with its mismatched chairs and foggy windows, had done this again. It had held space for another unlikely convergence.She caught Vita’s eye and gave her a small, tired smile. The morning’s soreness was now a deep, satisfying anchor in her body. The world outside kept turning, planes kept flying, but here, in this room, two very different women were talking about pie, and it felt like a quiet kind of victory.
The conversation in the corner softened into a genuine, murmured exchange. Yvonne turned back to the espresso machine, the polished metal reflecting the hazy morning light now streaming through the front window. She pulled a shot for a waiting customer, the rich crema swirling like liquid amber, her hands moving on their own reliable memory.
The soreness from the run had settled into a dull, familiar ache by mid-afternoon. It was a companion to the other, deeper ache, a twin echo of effort and absence. Janusz, the builder, arrived with two young apprentices in paint-splattered overalls. Their presence was announced by the slam of a van door and the sharp, clean scent of fresh-cut timber that cut through the café’s aroma of sugar and roast.
“The frame is perfect,” Janusz announced, his voice a gravelly rumble as he maneuvered a long, wrapped package through the door. He nodded toward the plastic-shrouded archway. “We set it, then we seal. The dust will be minimal. Mostly.”
“Mostly,” Yvonne repeated, a wry smile touching her lips. She gestured to the back. “There’s coffee when you need a break. And cake.”
The peaceful atmosphere dissolved into the productive chaos of renovation. The high whine of a power drill became the afternoon’s soundtrack, punctuated by the thud of a mallet and the shouted, easy-going banter between Janusz and his team. Yvonne watched as the old, crumbled plaster around the arched opening was carefully chipped away, revealing the solid brick beneath. It was a wound, but a necessary one. Each chunk of falling debris felt like progress.
She found herself repeatedly glancing at the new, raw opening. It was a mouth into darkness, into the long, narrow space of the former laundry that smelled of concrete and damp and potential. She saw not just a future seating area, but Victoria’s face when she would next see it. She would have opinions. She would trace the line of the new window frame with a critical, appreciative finger. The thought was a hook in Yvonne’s heart, pulling with a sweet, painful insistence.
Her phone buzzed in her apron pocket during a lull. A photo from Victoria: a stark, modern office kitchenette, a sad-looking potted cactus on a windowsill against a grey London sky. The caption read: They call this a plant. It’s an insult. I showed it your monstera for inspiration.
Yvonne’s laugh was short, quiet, a puff of air. She typed back, her fingers clumsy. Tell it survival is an attitude. Janusz is here. The cafe is half dust, half noise. It sounds like the future.
The reply was almost immediate. I miss the noise. Send photos when it’s done. And of you.
The drill screamed again. Yvonne put the phone away, the ghost of a smile lingering. She served a filtered coffee to Toni, who was now reading a dense political theory text, seemingly oblivious to the construction din. Toni merely nodded, not looking up, tapping a paragraph as if to say listen to this.
As the afternoon light began to slant, golden and thick with floating dust, the crew packed up. The archway was now clean-edged, the new wooden frame installed, a promise made solid. The floor was a mess of plaster dust and footprints. Janusz brushed off his hands on his trousers. “Tomorrow, the sealing and the first coat. Then you can see it proper.”
“Thank you, Janusz. Really.”
He waved a thick hand, dismissive. “Is a good space. Will be better.” He and his apprentices left, taking their noisy energy with them. A sudden, ringing quiet filled the café, layered now with the gentle, settling dust. Yvonne, Vita, and Joost looked at each other. They were all smudged with fine, white powder—Joost’s blonde hair was frosted, Vita’s cardigan looked like it had been in a snow globe.
“We look like ghosts of ourselves,” Joost observed, peering at his reflection in the coffee machine’s side.
“Productive ghosts,” Vita countered, already reaching for the broom with determined energy.
They cleaned in a tired, companionable silence. The sweep of bristles, the slap of a wet cloth on zinc, the clatter of cups being re-shelved. Yvonne wiped down every table, feeling the granular texture of dust under her cloth. The familiar act was a meditation, smoothing the edges of the day’s disruptions. She watered the row of herbs on the high shelf—basil, thyme, rosemary—their vibrant green a shock against the monochrome dust. Her lower back twinged with every stretch, a reminder of the morning’s frantic chase.
The dinner rush was a quiet one, just a few solo diners with books and bowls of soup. As the last of the evening light bled away, replaced by the warm glow of the fairy lights in their bottles, Yvonne felt the day’s accumulated weight in her bones. She was about to suggest closing early when the door chimed.
It was Herr Kaya. But the universe had subtly, profoundly shifted.
He was not alone. He entered first, his usual gruff demeanor seemingly amplified, a bulwark against the chaos that followed him. A man who could only be his brother—same strong nose, same fierce eyebrows, same compact, sturdy build—came in behind him, his eyes wide with friendly curiosity. Then came the children: a boy of about seven and a girl of maybe five, a whirlwind of animated Turkish and explosive energy.
“This is the place,” Herr Kaya stated, his voice aiming for its typical dismissiveness but landing somewhere near pride. He gestured vaguely at the room. “My brother, Cem. From Istanbul. These are his… noise-makers.”
“Merhaba!” Cem beamed, taking in the café with open delight. The children, oblivious, made a direct line for Hans, who lifted his head from his bed, his tail beginning a slow, curious wag.
For the first time, Yvonne saw Herr Kaya’s face not set in its permanent scowl. His eyes tracked the children, a deep, unmistakable fondness in the way the lines around them softened. He watched the boy cautiously pat Hans’s head, the girl giggling as the dog licked her fingers. A tension seemed to leak from Herr Kaya’s shoulders.
He approached the counter where Yvonne, Joost, and Vita stood in silent, captivated observation. He cleared his throat. “Four coffees. For the… the adults. And two…” He frowned, a man faced with an alien request. “Two milks. Warm. With honey, if you have this.”
“Of course,” Yvonne said, her voice gentle.
Herr Kaya met her eyes briefly, then glanced back at his brother, who was now pointing out the Paul Klee print to the children. “The coffee here,” Herr Kaya announced, loud enough for his family to hear, “is the least terrible I have found in this city. It does not taste of dishwater. This is something.”
He gave a single, firm nod, as if this settled the matter. It was a monument, built from his particular grumpy lexicon. A declaration of belonging, and even, perhaps, of love.
Joost, for once, was speechless. Vita put a hand over her heart, her eyes shining. Yvonne simply nodded, turning to prepare the order. As she steamed the milk for the children, she watched Herr Kaya guide his brother to a large table, his hand briefly, awkwardly, on Cem’s back. The children climbed onto the chairs, their small legs swinging, still chattering brightly.
The café was no longer just her refuge, or a sustainable business, or an award-winning renovation site. In that moment, with the warm milk pitcher in her hand and the low hum of family filling the dusty air, it was a conduit. It carried a piece of Istanbul to a quiet square in Berlin, and it carried a grumpy man’s heart, undisguised, to the surface for everyone to see.