Episode 2

Jasper

I got to the shop before sunrise again. The town square was empty, mountain air biting my face. Another hour and the marketplace would be full of tourists—browsing for gear, buying postcards, all asking which trail to take. Working late, coming back early.

I fished the keys from my jacket pocket. My hands were too cold, fingers clumsy on the keyring.

The lock refused to turn.

"You really should wear gloves in this cold."

I nearly dropped the keys. Sophia stood behind me, holding two paper cups from Barbara's. Steam rose between us.

"How do you always—" I gave up on the lock and reached for the coffee instead. The heat sank into my palms.

"Move." She nudged me aside, and the key slid home like it had never been stuck at all.

Inside, heat poured over me. The shop exhaled warmth that had built up overnight, and my skin prickled as blood rushed back into my fingers. I breathed in the smell of rubber and chain oil and felt my whole body unknot.

"You're already set up for today?" Sophia was looking at the gear I'd arranged last night. Six packs lined up, water bottles filled, first aid kits double-checked.

"The usual."

"You mean you were here at three in the morning again."

"Two, actually." I grinned at her over the coffee.

She shook her head, but she was smiling too. "I watched that film you wouldn't shut up about."

"Which one?"

"Casablanca."

I set down the coffee. "And?"

"Honestly? I don't get the fuss." She settled against the counter, watching me with obvious amusement. "The ending makes no sense. She's in love with him. Why get on the plane?"

"Because—" I started towards her to explain properly and forgot about the delivery boxes I'd shoved against the wall yesterday. My shin hit cardboard. The whole stack shifted, and I grabbed the counter to keep from going down completely.

"Poetry in motion," Sophia laughed.

"That box wasn't there before."

"You literally put it there."

"It moved." I rubbed my shin. "And the ending makes perfect sense. She's choosing something bigger than herself. He's letting her go because—"

"Because it's melodramatic and sad?"

"Because it's—it's right." I couldn't tell if my face was hot from the shop's warmth or from trying to defend my favourite film to someone who clearly enjoyed winding me up.

The shop door chimed. A couple stepped inside.

"We're not finished with this conversation," I whispered, very aware of the customers now browsing bike racks three metres away.

Sophia leaned closer, eyes bright with amusement. "Yes, we are."

She straightened and called over her shoulder as she headed for the customers. "Morning! Let me know if you need help."

The group showed up on schedule—six people, good boots, already excited. I liked this part. Showing people the mountains, watching them see something beautiful for the first time.

We took the Blaubach Trail. The forest swallowed us up, and I fell into the rhythm of guiding—pointing out landmarks, talking about the ecosystem, making sure no one fell behind.

About an hour in, one of the women stopped walking. She stood at the edge of the path, staring into the trees.

"Something wrong?" I asked.

"No, I just—there used to be a side trail here. I think." She looked at her husband. "Remember? Where we camped that first night?"

"That was a long time ago, Liebling."

"Forty-two years," she said, turning to me. Her whole expression had lit up. "We met on a tour like this. Fell in love somewhere between here and where we're going today."

I smiled at her. They'd been together since before I was born.

The rest of the group had gathered around now, listening. I unscrewed my water bottle to give my hands something to do.

"We were students," the husband added. "Couldn't afford hotels, so we camped in the forest. Probably broke half a dozen rules."

"Worth it, though." She reached for his hand.

"Do you live around here now?" someone else asked.

"Not yet. We've been abroad. But we always said we'd come back." The woman smiled at her husband. "Some places stay with you."

I checked my watch and got everyone moving again. At the back of the group, I took another drink from my water bottle even though I wasn't thirsty. The couple walked ahead of me, their shoulders nearly touching.

By the time we got back to town, my stomach was loud enough to embarrass me. One of the tourists laughed and handed me an extra protein bar, which I ate in three bites on the way to the café.

Marcel and Tobie had claimed their usual table. I dropped into the empty chair and flagged Barbara down for cake.

"Good tour?" Marcel asked.

"It was good. Met this couple who've been together for ages. They fell in love on this exact trail." I accepted the chocolate cake from Barbara like it was sacred. "How's your week?"

Tobie and Marcel exchanged a look—the kind that meant they'd been talking about something important.

"We're really doing it," Tobie said. "The adoption. We talked to the agency yesterday."

Something warm expanded in my chest. "That's incredible."

"A girl," Marcel added. "Maybe. If everything works out."

"It will." I meant it. I'd never seen two people more ready to be parents. "You'll be amazing at this."

"We're terrified," Tobie admitted, but he was smiling.

"That probably means you're taking it seriously." I finished the cake in record time. Barbara's chocolate cake was dangerous.

Marcel leaned back, studying me with that expression that meant he was about to say something I wouldn't like. "So when's it your turn?"

I set down my fork. "My turn for what?"

"Finding someone. Building something." He gestured between himself and Tobie. "You can't hide behind the shop forever, Jasper."

I laughed it off. We had this conversation every few months. "Oma needs help. The shop's busy. I don't exactly have time—"

"You're thirty-three," Tobie said quietly. "And you have time for everyone except yourself."

I looked down at my empty plate. A few crumbs scattered across the white ceramic. I pushed them around with my fingertip.

"Maybe eventually," I said. "Right now I'm focused on the business."

Tobie didn't answer right away. When he did, his voice was gentle. "Being content's not the same as being happy. You know that, right?"

I stared at my empty plate. The café continued around us—Barbara's laugh from the kitchen, chairs scraping, the espresso machine hissing.

"I am happy." I picked up my fork and set it down again. Heat crept up my neck.

Marcel let it drop, bless him, and started talking about their weekend plans. Something about an art show in Munich. I nodded along, only half listening.

When I left the café, the sun was already sinking behind the mountains. October had no mercy—daylight gone by mid-afternoon. The square was still busy, people finishing their errands, stopping to chat with neighbours.

I walked home alone.

Oma was already asleep when I put on Roman Holiday. She'd spent all day baking for Anna's visit, and I could still smell apples and cinnamon in the kitchen.

I settled onto the couch as the opening credits rolled. Black and white Rome flickered across the screen.

Audrey Hepburn and Gregory Peck stole their one perfect day. The Mouth of Truth. The haircut in that cramped apartment. Dancing on a barge. Every moment borrowed, every minute stolen from the lives they were supposed to be living.

I'd watched this film maybe twenty times. Could quote half the dialogue. Still watched.

The ending came. The press conference. Princess Ann standing at the podium, answering questions in three languages, every word careful and diplomatic. Joe Bradley at the back of the room, just another reporter. Their eyes met. She didn't look away. Neither did he.

"I will cherish my visit here in memory, as long as I live," she said.

Tears blurred the screen. I didn't bother wiping them away.

The credits rolled. I sat in the dark living room with the television still glowing faintly, not moving.

Outside, the mountains had disappeared into darkness. I turned off the TV. The house settled into silence.

Tomorrow Anna would arrive with the boys. Raphael would tear through every room asking a thousand questions, Elias just tagging along with his older brother. The house would be chaos and noise and love.

Tonight it was just me and the quiet.

I sat there anyway, listening to the clock tick on the wall, feeling the warmth seep out of the room degree by degree.

Lucas

I spent most of the day pretending not to check my phone. "Backstage Pass" had grown to seven chapters overnight. Seven. Someone had made a playlist. Marcus texted me screenshots every hour, each one somehow worse than the last.

By three o'clock, I gave up pretending I wasn't leaving and started packing.

Marcus pulled up outside their building right on time. I dragged the suitcase down the stairs for the second time in two days, and Becca held the door while I wrestled it towards the car.

"Still enormous," Marcus observed.

"It's the same suitcase."

"And it's still enormous." He popped the boot, and we both stared at the opening like it might offer suggestions. "You think it'll fit?"

"It fit yesterday."

"Yesterday feels like a lifetime ago." Marcus grabbed one end. "Ready?"

We heaved. The suitcase landed with a thud that made the whole car bounce.

"German efficiency." I'd been making the same joke all day—every time I did something remotely organised. Packed a bag? German efficiency. Found my passport on the first try? German efficiency. It was getting old, but I couldn't stop.

Becca laughed anyway. "Please stop saying that."

"Can't. It's my new personality trait."

Marcus closed the boot and brushed off his hands. "Right. Let's get you to the airport before you change your mind."

"I'm not going to change my mind."

"You changed your mind about brunch three times this morning."

"That was different. Brunch required thought."

Becca climbed into the back seat. "Everything requires thought with you."

I got in the front, and Marcus started the car. LA slid past the windows—familiar streets, familiar buildings, everything bathed in late afternoon light. Golden hour approaching, the kind of light that made the city look better than it probably deserved.

"Your flight's at six-thirty, right?" Becca leaned forward between the seats.

"Yeah."

"And you'll text when you land?"

"I'll text when I land."

"And when you get to the house?"

"When I get to the house."

"And if you freeze to death?"

I turned to look at her. "If I freeze to death, texting might be challenging."

Marcus grinned. "I don't know. You're pretty dedicated."

"Thank you for that vote of confidence."

"How many chapters is it up to now?" Becca asked.

"Seven."

She pulled out her phone. "Oh my God. Someone made fan art. You're both shirtless. There's a piano involved somehow."

"A piano?"

"I don't know why there's a piano."

Marcus groaned. "Please tell me I'm not playing the piano shirtless."

"You're playing the piano shirtless."

"Of course I am."

I laughed. "At least they gave you a talent."

"They gave me hypothermia. Who plays piano shirtless?"

"Apparently you do," Becca said, scrolling. "Oh, this one has mood lighting. Very romantic."

Traffic thickened as we merged onto the freeway. Planes crossed overhead, lower now, the steady rhythm of LAX approach patterns. I watched one cut across the sky, belly lights blinking.

Becca's voice came from the back seat, quieter now. "And you're really coming back for Christmas, right? You're not going to get there and decide to stay longer?"

I caught her eyes in the rearview mirror. "I'm really coming back. Early December, like I said. I promise."

"Good." She settled back in her seat. "We're doing a proper dinner this year. No turkey disasters."

"Hey! I've learned since then."

"Have you though?" Becca snorted and I could see her eyes roll in the rear view mirror.

Marcus shot me a look. "Tell her I've learned."

"I'm staying out of this."

"Coward."

We pulled up to departures, and the airport swallowed us whole—crowds pressing in from every direction, announcements echoing overhead, cars jockeying for position at the curb. Marcus found a spot, and I climbed out.

The suitcase looked even bigger here. Everyone else had neat little carry-ons, compact and practical. Maybe they had Mary Poppins bags—those magical carpet bags that fit an entire lamp inside. That would explain it. Or maybe they were just better at packing than I was. Probably that.

"You sure you need all this?" Marcus hauled it out of the boot.

"I packed light."

"This is light?"

"For six weeks, yes."

Becca grabbed my overnight bag. "Come on. Let's get you checked in before they charge us for loitering."

The terminal smelled like coffee and cinnamon rolls and recycled air. My suitcase rumbled over the tile, announcing our arrival to everyone within a hundred yards. People glanced over. A couple of them did double-takes. I kept moving.

Check-in took forever. The agent weighed my bag twice, like she didn't trust the scale the first time.

"Forty-nine pounds," she finally said.

"Told you I packed light."

Marcus snorted behind me.

I got my boarding pass, watched my suitcase disappear down the conveyor belt, and turned to find Becca already at a newsstand, loading up on snacks.

"You don't need to—"

"You're going to want these." She dumped a bag of trail mix, two chocolate bars, and a pack of gum into my hands. "The food on international flights is terrible."

"I'll be fine."

"You'll be hungry." She went back for a bottle of water. "And cranky."

Marcus checked his phone. "Flight's on time. Gate C7."

We walked through the terminal together, past duty-free shops and restaurant chains and people slumped in chairs staring at screens. Everything had that displaced airport feeling.

Security took forever. I made it through, collected my bag and shoes, and found Marcus and Becca waiting on the other side.

"You didn't have to wait."

"We're going to the gate," Becca said.

"You can't get past security."

"We got day passes." Marcus held up a paper slip. "Becca charmed someone at the desk."

"Of course she did."

We found the gate. Still an hour before boarding. The waiting area filled slowly—families with kids, business travellers in suits, a couple backpackers who looked like they'd been awake for three days straight.

I sat down. Marcus sat next to me, closer than necessary. Becca took the chair on my other side.

"So," Marcus said.

"So."

"Six weeks."

"Six weeks."

Becca's hand found my arm. She didn't say anything, just left it there.

I tried to think of something useful to say. Something that would make this easier. But everything that came to mind felt too big or too small, and my throat had gone tight in that way that meant talking might be a bad idea.

"I'll text," I managed. "Constantly. You'll get sick of me."

"Not possible," Becca said. Her voice came out rough.

The gate agent's voice cut through the terminal. "Final boarding call for Flight 452 to Munich. All remaining passengers please proceed to the gate immediately."

I blinked. Looked at the board. They'd called boarding groups while we'd been sitting here, and I'd missed all of it.

"That's you." Marcus stood up.

I grabbed my bag. People rushed past us, boarding passes in hand, the gate agent's expression sliding from patient to annoyed.

"Sir?" She looked directly at me. "We need to close the door."

"Go," Becca said, but she was hugging me, and Marcus was there too, arms around both of us.

"Love you guys," I said into someone's shoulder.

"Be safe," Marcus said. His voice cracked.

"Text us," Becca added.

"Sir, we really need to—"

"I know, I know." I pulled back. Tried to smile. Probably failed. "I'm—I'm going."

I made it three steps before I looked back.

They were still standing there. Becca had tears on her face. Marcus had his arm around her shoulders, and they were both waving.

I waved back.

The gate agent cleared her throat.

I turned and walked down the jetway. The floor sloped downward, walls closing in on both sides, that aeroplane smell already starting. The jetway bent to the left, and Marcus and Becca disappeared behind the curve. One second they were there, waving. The next, gone.

The jetway opened into the plane. Flight attendant smiled. I found my seat, shoved my bag in the overhead bin, and dropped into 17A.

Window seat.

Outside, the sun dropped towards the horizon, painting the tarmac orange and gold. Ground crew moved around the plane, disconnecting hoses, pulling away equipment. Everything methodical. Everything on schedule.

I pulled out my phone and typed: Made it. Barely. Love you both.

Sent it before they made me switch to aeroplane mode.

Six weeks in Germany. An inherited house I barely remembered. A town I'd visited maybe twice as a kid.

The plane's engines rumbled to life.

I closed my eyes and tried not to think about how far away LA was about to be.