Right on time—7:30 PM Sunday—Katarina's email landed in Alex's inbox. The attachment, a neatly labeled zip file, read Germany_PostWar_Visuals. He opened it with a quick flick of the trackpad, a current of curiosity flickering through him. Inside, alongside several publicly sourced images, was a subfolder: D.V. Archive_Berlin_1946–1952. D.V. Dimitri Volkov, he guessed. Her grandfather.
The photos stunned him. They weren't the sanitized frames of textbooks or museums. These were raw, full of grit and breath. Streets alive with post-war resilience, portraits etched with survival. Bombed cathedrals standing like ghosts beside rising scaffolds. The past, as seen through a lens both intimate and unflinching.
One image made him freeze—a grainy shot from a high angle of a crowded open-air market. In the foreground, a man in a dark overcoat, his back half-turned, barely visible behind a stall of salvaged junk. Something about his stance stirred a chill in Alex. A trick of posture? A resemblance to someone he couldn't place? He shook it off, but the feeling didn't leave.
He replied to Katarina:"Volkov-san, these are incredible. The D.V. Archive especially—it's a perspective I've never seen. Thank you for sharing. They'll give our presentation real weight."He said nothing of the man in the coat.
The next day, between classes, he spotted Katarina at her locker. He approached, easy tone, controlled rhythm. "Those photos—impressive work. Your grandfather had a real eye."
She glanced up, the corners of her mouth lifting ever so slightly. "Thank you, Nakamura-kun. He believed a photograph could carry what words couldn't." A pause. Then, gently:"Он был бы рад, что его работа пригодилась."(He would be glad his work is being used.)
"They definitely will be," Alex said. "I've started merging our script drafts. Want me to send mine tonight? Maybe we can meet midweek to refine it?"
"Efficient as ever," she said. "Wednesday work? My place, if that's all right? My father's working late and my mother has her book club. It'll be quiet."
Alex blinked. Her place. Not a café or the library—a shift, subtle but meaningful. A mark of trust, or at least comfort. "Sure. Just send me the address."
"Надеюсь, он не будет слишком удивлён скромностью нашей квартиры," she murmured, almost to herself.(I hope he won't be too surprised by the modesty of our apartment.)
He didn't flinch. From ancestral homes in Kyoto to sleek high-rises in Tokyo, he'd seen his share of contrast. It wasn't the modesty of her apartment that intrigued him—it was the glimpse she'd let slip.
By Wednesday, he was standing outside a quiet building in a leafy, residential part of town. He double-checked the address and buzzed apartment 3B.
The speaker crackled. "Nakamura-kun?"
"It's me."
The door clicked open. Inside was calm, the faint scent of old wood and something floral in the air. The elevator took him up. Apartment 3B stood at the corridor's end. He knocked lightly.
Katarina opened it. She wore soft grey and black—comfy clothes, not school armor. Her hair, usually pulled back, hung loose in silver waves. At home, she looked different. Quieter. Realer.
"Nakamura-kun. Please, come in."
The apartment was small but warmly lived-in. Not minimalist or cold. Books dominated—lining shelves, stacked in corners, tucked into nooks. The scent of aged paper blended with that light floral trace, like dried lavender and something older. It felt like walking into a mind, or maybe a memory.
"Проходи, не стесняйся. У нас не дворец, конечно, но для работы сойдёт," she said with a faint smile.(Come in, don't be shy. It's not a palace, but it'll do.)
"It's very comfortable," Alex said, sincerely. He scanned the shelves. "Your library's amazing."
She looked slightly embarrassed. "My parents and I… we read a lot." She gestured to a coffee table cleared for their work. "Tea? Or water?"
"Tea would be great, thanks."
She moved to the small kitchen. He took in the rest—photos among the books. A smiling couple—her parents?—some sepia images. One of an elderly woman with Katarina's same hair and eyes, standing beside a younger man who might have been Dimitri Volkov.
She returned with a tray—teapot, two porcelain cups, and cookies."Это овсяное печенье по бабушкиному рецепту. Надеюсь, тебе понравится."(These are oatmeal cookies from my grandmother's recipe. I hope you like them.)
"They smell fantastic," he said, touched. He took a bite—warm spice, soft raisin, cinnamon. "Your grandmother had skill."
"She did," Katarina said, quietly. "This is one of the few recipes I could get right."
The past tense lingered. Alex didn't press. Another quiet truth offered. He shifted to safer ground. "The script. I merged our sections—we should do a read-through."
For the next two hours, they worked. Reading, adjusting, refining. Her voice, when she read, was precise, but warmer in this space. Less formal. Her gestures punctuated meaning, her fingers tracing key points in the printout. The light from the window caught her silver hair, and Alex found himself watching—not just listening.
During a section on the Berlin Wall's psychological toll, her voice hitched.
"Как можно было разделить целый народ, целые семьи, такой бездушной стеной? Какая жестокость…"(How could anyone divide a people, families, with such a soulless wall? Such cruelty...)
Her whisper was pained. Not rhetorical. Personal.
Alex felt the weight of it. He wanted to say something that would show he understood—but not too much. Not yet.
He said instead, "It's hard to stay detached with this part. Your grandfather's photos—they really show the cost."
She met his eyes, something raw flickering there. Then a nod. "Yes. They do." She exhaled. "Let's go on."
Near the end, Alex stumbled on a German name.
She corrected him, perfect pronunciation. He blinked. "You speak German?"
"A little," she said, coloring slightly. "My mother's side has some roots there. I picked up enough." Then, quieter, almost to herself:"Зачем я это сказала? Теперь он будет задавать вопросы."(Why did I say that? Now he'll ask questions.)
But he didn't. Not yet. "That's impressive," he said, and moved back to the script.
They wrapped up the draft, tightened transitions. By the end, it felt solid. Sharpened. Alive.
"I think," she said, closing her laptop with a satisfying click, "we might actually have something good, Nakamura-kun."
"I agree. Your thoroughness—and your grandfather's lens—really brought it together."
She ducked her head slightly, a shy motion. "Он действительно хорошо поработал. И… ты тоже."(He worked hard. And… so did you.)
Alex felt something warm uncoil in his chest. Not just the compliment—the way she said it. Quiet, reluctant. Sincere.
As he got ready to leave, the scent of cookies still hung in the air.
"Thanks for having me. And for the tea. Your grandmother's recipe is excellent."
Her smile was genuine, the facade gone. "I'm glad you liked them, Nakamura-kun."
Walking home, Alex carried more than just satisfaction. The script was nearly done—but something else had started. Something not so easily outlined. Ghosts in photographs. Tea and cookies. The way she let her guard down in pieces. Katarina Volkov wasn't just his partner. She was a story—half-told, closely held. And he wasn't sure he wanted to stop reading.
[End Chapter 6]