Episode 3

Lucas

Thirty hours.

By the time I pulled into Waldheim, I'd been awake for thirty hours.

The flight was a blur. I drank terrible coffee that tasted like burnt plastic and stared at the seat-back screen with sore eyes. The recycled air dried out my throat. I was in that strange state of exhaustion where you're too tired to sleep and too wired to rest; I was just existing in airplane purgatory for eleven hours.

The customs area in Munich hit me like a wall of fluorescent lights. Everything looked pale and flat. I showed my German passport and headed for the baggage reclaim area. Of course, security pulled me aside for a bag check. My enormous suitcase probably looked suspicious.

"Your bag, please."

I heaved it onto the inspection table. They went through everything while I stood there with my hands in my pockets, watching them unfold every shirt I had packed. My face felt hot. I was pretty sure I looked guilty of something, even though the most illegal thing in there was probably... Actually, what was the most suspicious thing I'd packed? Had I remembered to take out those edibles?

I did. Probably. Right?

They finally waved me through, and I made it to the rental car desk, only to discover that I'd been given a car with a manual transmission. The last time I drove a car with a manual transmission was... actually, I wasn't sure if I ever had. Maybe once? In high school?

It took me twenty minutes in the car park. The engine stalled every time I tried to pull out. My foot slipping off the clutch. German drivers were honking behind me, their frustration radiating through my rear-view mirror. By the time I finally lurched out onto the road, my palms were slick with sweat.

The autobahn was an hour of existential dread. But I survived, and finally exited onto smaller, winding roads. The concrete and industrial sprawl gave way to open fields. Scattered houses appeared, with pitched roofs and flower boxes. The road climbed. The trees thickened on both sides—first just a few scattered oaks and pines, then a dense forest close enough to brush against the car. The dark, massive mountains rose up ahead against the afternoon sky, and something in my chest loosened.

I'd made it.

When I left the car in Waldheim, in front of the notary's office, the air smelled of pine and rain.

The office smelled of old paper and lemon furniture polish. It was the kind of smell that made you instinctively whisper.

I was glad it didn't take long. The notary reminded me of a German Santa Claus: he had a white beard and kind eyes and was patient with my terrible German as he walked me through the documents I barely understood. He slid papers across the heavy wooden desk one after another, pointing to the places where I needed to sign.

Finally, he reached into a drawer and pulled out a set of keys. They felt surprisingly heavy when he placed them in my palm. Cold metal, worn smooth. A house key, probably. Or maybe a garage. Attached to them was a small brass tag with an address engraved in neat script.

"Your aunt was a good woman," he said in careful English. "The town will miss her."

I swallowed hard, the keys pressing into my palm. "I wish I'd stayed in touch."

"She speak of you. Always proud."

That didn't make me feel better. I closed my fingers around the keys.

The air outside felt cooler after the stuffy office. I walked back to the car, keys in pocket and a folder of property documents under my arm.

A wide smile spread across my face—I owned a house in Germany!

I got back in the rental car and put the folder on the passenger seat. GPS to Am Wald 17. Time to see what I'd actually inherited. But as I navigated the narrow, cobblestone streets out of the town centre, a supermarket sign caught my eye. Right. Food. I should probably eat at some point.

I pulled into the car park. I'd need something for tonight. Pasta, maybe. Something quick.

I paused at the entrance. I'd seen enough Instagram reels about German supermarkets to know this could go badly. How different could it actually be?

Inside, the store looked normal enough—bright lights, organized aisles, that faint bakery smell that every supermarket seemed to have. Different brands on the shelves, but the layout made sense. I grabbed a basket and started hunting.

Pasta. Easy. I found a packet and tossed it in.

Sauce. I grabbed a jar of tomato-based sauce. Nothing special, but it would do.

Bread, butter, coffee. The essentials.

I spotted Haribo near the checkout and grabbed a pack. German Haribo. I'd seen enough Instagram reels of people going crazy over them to know I had to try them. Now it was finally my turn.

I approached the checkout feeling confident. It was just groceries. Why did people fuss about it all the time on my timeline?

The cashier was a middle-aged woman who looked like she'd been doing this job for thirty years. She scanned my items at a speed that defied the laws of physics. Beep-beep-beep-beep! The pasta, the sauce, the bread. Everything flew past in a blur while I stood there like an idiot.

I fumbled for my wallet while items piled up at the end of the belt.

Wait. Where was the bagging area?

"Tüte?" the cashier asked without slowing down.

"Uh..." I recognized the word for bag. Maybe. Probably. "Nein. Danke."

Her expression suggested I'd just declined a life raft on the Titanic.

I pulled out the reusable bag I'd grabbed from the rental car and tried to start packing while she kept scanning. The people behind me shifted, impatient energy radiating off them like heat. One man checked his watch. Twice.

The cashier's hands were a blur. I was pretty sure she was breaking several laws of physics. And I was breaking every single rule of German grocery shopping, based on the looks I was getting.

I tried to smile at the woman behind me. Her expression went flat.

"Pack lieber mal ein..." She grunted, waving impatiently at my groceries.

I didn't catch the words—German, probably, but my brain was done—but the gesture was clear enough. Pack faster.

"Sorry," I muttered. Heat crept up my neck.

I turned back to my disaster, shoved the pasta into the bag. The sauce jar slipped. I caught it, barely, my heart jumping into my throat.

"Seventeen euros," announced the cashier, already reaching for the next customer's items.

I fumbled with the unfamiliar bills, trying to remember which were which. The woman behind me sighed. Sighed very audibly.

Finally got the right amount. Paid. Grabbed my half-packed bag and got out of there before I could embarrass myself further. If that was even possible at this point!

Outside in the car park, I loaded everything into the car and just sat there for a moment, hands on the steering wheel.

I closed my eyes. Breathed. My heart rate gradually returned to something normal. Okay. I could survive German supermarkets.

I started the car and drove to Am Wald 17, found the house at the end, and parked in front.

I got out of the car and stood on the pavement, staring up at it.

Pale yellow paint. Mostly. One shutter hung at an angle that seemed to mock the concept of level. A few terracotta tiles had fallen off entirely. The front garden had gone completely feral; weeds were staging a full-scale invasion of what used to be a stone path.

This was mine now. Lucky me.

I took the keys out of my pocket and walked to the front door. It creaked as I pushed it, then got stuck halfway.

"C'mon." I put my shoulder into it. The door groaned as it gave way, the sound echoing through the empty house.

Cold hit me like a wall. I pulled my jacket tighter. Old radiators lined the walls. They were ice cold and purely decorative.

I flicked on the light switch. At least the electricity worked. Yellow light filled the entryway, revealing enough dust to build a second, smaller house.

Marcus was going to love the photos.

I dropped the grocery bag on the kitchen counter and started to explore.

The living room furniture was covered in dust sheets; everything was draped in white, like ghosts. I pulled back one sheet. A floral-print sofa—definitely from the seventies. I let it fall back into place. The fabric smelled musty.

I spotted a boxy TV under another sheet and found the remote on the coffee table. Worth a shot. I pressed the power button.

The TV flickered to life. It was ancient; it had to be at least thirty years old. Every channel showed nothing but static and "NO SIGNAL" messages. I walked over to the window and looked up at the satellite dish mounted on the side of the house.

Wrong angle. Completely wrong. The thing wasn't even pointed at the sky. Just aimed at the neighbor's roof. The mount looked rusty, barely holding it in place.

"Right. Add that to the list."

In the kitchen, I tried the tap. Water sputtered out brown at first, then cleared to something almost normal. "Okay. That's something." The stove was dated. It was made of pale green enamel, the kind that my grandmother might have had. I turned a knob tentatively. Gas hissed. So that worked.

Upstairs, I found the bedroom. Double bed with bare mattress, more dust-covered furniture, shutters closed tight over the windows. I tried one. Stuck. "Of course."

I yanked harder, and it gave way with a crack. Weak afternoon light spilled in. Something scurried across the floor, squeaking, and disappeared into a gap in the baseboard.

In the middle of the floor lay a dead rat. Half-skeletonized, dark stain spreading around it.

At least the house came with a welcoming committee.

I turned slowly to take in the rest of the room. "Wow..."

Cobwebs in every corner. Dust covering every surface. Nobody had lived here in years.

I walked to the window, ran my hand along the frame. Solid wood, deep sill. The ceiling was high. Higher than my LA apartment. Good bones, my mom would have said. Just needs some love.

Or a lot of work. Possibly more work than I'd bargained for.

I pulled out my phone and texted Marcus: I own a fixer-upper in Germany. Send help. Or cleaning supplies.

My phone buzzed immediately. Amazon notification. Marcus had sent me a gift voucher.

I laughed. Of course he had.

His text came through a second later: You're welcome ;) Love you.

I headed upstairs. I'd need somewhere to sleep tonight, even if it was just a bare mattress and whatever sheets I could find that weren't completely falling apart.

I was rummaging through a linen closet when the doorbell rang. I froze. Who knew I was here?

I moved toward the stairs, each step careful. The old floorboards groaned. I winced at every creak. So much for stealth.

Outside, I heard voices. Kids, shouting in German. It took me a second to remember. Halloween. I'd completely forgotten.

Trick-or-treating. Shit.

And I had nothing. No candy. Nothing to give them.

I glanced at the windows. Every light in the house blazed. I couldn't exactly pretend I wasn't home.

Great. Perfect.

I headed downstairs and opened the door.

Two kids in Halloween costumes stood on my doorstep. One dressed as a pirate, the other as a vampire, both maybe seven or eight years old. They shouted something in German that I assumed was "trick-or-treat," and then, before I could respond, pushed past me into the house.

"Uh—" I turned, completely thrown. "Wait—"

The pirate spun in the entryway, shouting in rapid German. "—so GROSS! —so KALT!" I picked out those words at least.

Wait. Did he just—

I stared at the kid. Gross? My house was gross? I mean... fair. Dead rat upstairs. But—

Oh.

OH.

Groß. Big. Not gross-gross.

I pressed my hand to my forehead. Thirty hours awake. My brain was running on fumes.

"Geister?"

Ghosts. He was asking about ghosts.

"Ich habe keine—uh—" I scrambled for the German. "Süßigkeiten?"

No candy. That's what I was trying to say.

They didn't care. The vampire was already opening doors, peering into rooms, offering running commentary I couldn't follow.

"Where you from?" The pirate switched to English, eyes bright.

"America. Los Angeles. I just—today, I just got here today—"

"Raphael! Elias!" A voice from the doorway. "Raus! JETZT!"

I turned.

A man lunged forward, reaching for the boys. They darted past him, too fast. He turned to me, hand pressed to his forehead.

"Es tut mir so leid." Mortified. Completely mortified.

He managed to grab one of the boys by the shoulder—the pirate—before he could disappear down the hall.

"Gibt es hier Geister?" the vampire asked, looking up at me with wide eyes.

My exhausted brain caught "Geister." Ghosts. He was asking about ghosts.

"I don't know..." I said in English.

The boy blinked up at me, clearly waiting for something.

The man said something quickly in German, translating, I assumed, then turned back to me and switched to English. "I'm so sorry. They saw lights and just..." He gestured helplessly. "I turned around and they were gone."

The kids reluctantly headed toward the door, still chattering.

"It's fine. Really."

He finally looked at me properly. Sheepish. Embarrassed. The air smelled like cinnamon. Warm. Like someone's kitchen.

"I'm Jasper," he said, a hand on each boy's shoulder. "This is Raphael and Elias."

"Lucas." I took a breath. "Really, it's fine. No harm done."

His expression relaxed slightly. "You just arrived? Today?"

"Yeah. Just got in a few hours ago. Still figuring out where everything is."

He glanced past me into the cold, dark entryway. "The house has been empty for a while. If you need anything..." He gestured vaguely down the street. "Recommendations, help with anything. I live that way. Just let me know."

"Thanks. I appreciate that."

"Can we go now?" Raphael tugged at his arm.

"Wait—hold on." I turned back into the house, remembering the shopping bag on the kitchen counter. I grabbed it and pulled out the pack of Haribo.

Well. So much for that.

I held out the package to the boys. "Here. Happy Halloween."

Raphael's eyes went wide. "Really?"

"Really. Happy Halloween."

"Was sagt man?" Jasper prompted gently.

"Danke!" both boys chorused, Elias already trying to open the package.

"Not yet," Jasper said, taking the Haribo and tucking it under his arm. "After we're done."

"Thank you," Raphael added in English, remembering his manners.

I smiled. "You're welcome."

Jasper met my eyes, looking genuinely grateful and maybe a little embarrassed. "You didn't have to—"

"I wanted to." I meant it.

He smiled back—brief, genuine—and then they were gone. Down the steps, onto the street, the boys' voices fading as they headed to the next house.

I closed the door and moved to the kitchen window. The boys ran ahead, costumes flashing in the streetlight. Jasper called after them. Raphael slowed down for about three seconds before taking off again.

I watched until they disappeared into the next house.

The cold pressed in around me. The house was silent except for the creak of old wood settling. I should probably figure out how things worked here. Small German towns probably had unwritten rules about new neighbors.

But that was a problem for tomorrow.

I rubbed my face. Thirty hours awake. I needed to unpack. Find sheets. Get actual sleep.

Instead, I found my phone and collapsed onto the dust-covered sofa downstairs. The sheets were still on it, but I was too tired to care. I pulled one over my legs—the house was freezing.

I stared at the screen for a moment. I should sleep. I really should sleep.

I called Becca.

The phone rang twice before she picked up.

"You're alive!" Her voice was bright, way too awake for whatever time it was in LA. "We were starting to wonder."

"Barely alive." I sank deeper into the sofa, dust puffing up around me. "What time is it there?"

"Morning. Marcus is still asleep." I heard movement, the sound of her walking somewhere. "How's Germany?"

"Cold. Dusty. The house is—" I looked around at the white-draped furniture, the cobwebs in the corners. "It needs a lot of work."

"But you made it? Flight okay?"

"Long. The rental car was manual. I stalled out like six times getting out of the parking garage."

She laughed. "Very on-brand for you."

"There was a supermarket incident."

"Of course there was."

"And kids broke into my house."

"What?"

"Halloween. Two kids in costumes just walked right in. Their dad had to come collect them." I closed my eyes, letting my head drop back against the sofa. The cushion smelled like dust and old fabric. My whole body ached. "Nice guy. Lives down the street."

"Uh-huh." I could hear the grin in her voice. "Nice guy?"

"Don't start. He's married."

"You don't know that."

"He has two young kids, Becca. We're in small-town Germany. He's definitely married."

"Lots of single parents exist, Lucas."

"There's nothing—" I yawned. "He has kids. A wife. Probably a very nice, stable life."

"Noted." I could hear the grin in her voice. "But we're coming back to this later."

"How's Marcus?" I asked, changing the subject before she could dig deeper.

"Still riding high from the show. Someone made a TikTok compilation of his performance. It's got like two million views."

"That's amazing."

"He's freaking out. In a good way. Mostly." She paused. "He misses you already."

"Tell him I miss him too." My eyes were getting heavy. The sofa was uncomfortable, but I couldn't seem to move. The phone kept slipping in my hand. "And tell him the internet here is terrible, so video calls might be—"

"Lucas?"

"Mm?"

"You sound exhausted. Go to bed."

"I'm on the sofa."

"Then stay on the sofa. We'll talk tomorrow." Her voice softened. "Get some sleep. Real sleep."

"Yeah. Okay." I was already half-gone, the phone sliding toward my chest. "Thanks for—"

"Go to sleep, Lucas."

"Love you."

"Love you too. Now hang up."

I meant to get up. Find my suitcase. Figure out the bed situation.

I didn't move.

Tomorrow I'd have to actually look at this place. See what worked, what didn't. Find out where to buy... whatever you bought when your house had a dead rat and shutters that didn't open. There had to be a hardware store. Or someone who knew about old houses.

Jasper probably knew.

The phone slipped from my hand.

Six weeks. I could figure this out in six weeks.

My eyes closed.