The door closed softly behind him.
Inside, the house returned to stillness — a silent hearth, a bed still warm, and a woman standing quietly in the doorway, hands pressed to her chest. She watched him go, lips parted slightly, holding her breath long after he disappeared from view.
Outside, the cold met him at once.
The front door creaked open with a low wooden groan, the hinges stiff from frost. Wilhelm stepped onto the front step, the chill biting through his boots and into his ankles. His coat was already buttoned tight — black wool, gold trim, medals aligned cleanly across his chest. The crimson armband sat just below his shoulder, bright against the winter light.
Frost coated everything — the grass, the stone path, the flowerbeds frozen in mid-bloom. Thin shards of ice glittered along the iron fence. Breath curled from his nose like smoke.
The sky above the pines was glowing faint orange. The sun was only just cresting the horizon behind the ridge — low and slow, like a soldier rising late from his cot after a long campaign.
He inhaled deeply. Pine and cold earth. A hint of smoke still clinging to his collar.
Waiting near the cobbled path was a young maid — her posture straight despite the chill, her cheeks flushed pink from standing so long. She wore a simple woolen dress beneath her apron, boots too big for her, and clutched a folded cloth in her hands like it was her only shield from the cold.
She bowed the moment he approached.
"Good morning, General," she said, voice soft with admiration. "Your carriage is just outside the gate. They've been waiting since before first light."
Wilhelm nodded.
"Thank you, Anneliese."
She smiled faintly, but said nothing more. She stepped aside to let him pass, eyes cast down respectfully as his boots crunched the frost-dusted path.
He walked slowly, past the porch railing and through the narrow iron gate. His breath hung heavy in the air.
There it was — waiting in silence beyond the fence.
The black carriage.
Reinforced with steel plates beneath its polished wood frame. Rounded windows trimmed in brass. A golden Reich insignia painted across the door panel — the eagle in flight, wings curved around a tower rising above mountain peaks. Two black horses stomped restlessly at the front, their nostrils steaming, manes combed and sleek.
Two riflemen stood on either side of the carriage — uniforms pressed, helmets shining, rifles slung with ceremonial straps. The eagle emblem on their chests caught the light like mirrors.
As Wilhelm neared, both saluted in unison — boots together, arms raised sharply in the formal Reich gesture.
"General Drossen," one said. "May your road be smooth."
Wilhelm returned a subtle nod.
He reached for the brass handle, stepping up onto the footrest. The hinges gave a solid clunk as he opened the door.
The interior was dim — velvet-lined, leather-padded, with curtains half-drawn. The air inside was warm, still, and smelled faintly of tobacco and polished leather.
And seated within, legs crossed neatly, hands folded over a flat wool cap resting in his lap—
Was the Führer himself.
Adolf Hitler.
He wore his full formal coat — double-breasted, black as obsidian — the collar pressed high, silver piping outlining the shape of command. His gloves were off, tucked into the crook of his arm. His pale blue eyes watched Wilhelm enter with a glint that was neither warm nor cold.
Merely certain.
"Wilhelm," he said, his voice calm, composed. "Come in."
Wilhelm hesitated for half a second. Not out of fear — but respect. He stepped inside, closing the door behind him with a deliberate thud. The carriage jolted slightly as it began to move.
The wheels cracked over gravel. The horses pulled forward with rhythmic snorts. The trees drifted past the windows in slow procession.
Silence stretched between them.
For a moment, neither spoke.
Then, finally, Hitler broke it.
"The German people…" he began, but then stopped — as if reconsidering.
He looked to the window for a beat.
Then turned back.
"…I thank you," he said softly. "For your contribution. For your precision. For your silence… and for your strength."
Wilhelm said nothing.
Hitler reached into the inside pocket of his coat and withdrew a folded parchment — sealed with the Reich's black wax insignia. He held it out.
Wilhelm took it, the seal warm from the Führer's hand.
He unfolded it slowly.
His eyes narrowed.
"The new military square in New Berlin," Hitler said, "is being laid this month. Your likeness will be its centerpiece. A statue in iron and marble — standing westward, toward the Larrak Valley. Toward the line you never let break."
Wilhelm's jaw tensed. He folded the parchment in his lap.
"…That won't be necessary, my Führer. I… simply followed orders."
But Hitler raised a hand — just one finger, upright.
"It is not a reward," he said. "It is a reminder. For the boys being trained. For the mothers sending sons. For the enemies watching."
He looked at Wilhelm again.
"It is an order. Your last — as General."
Wilhelm's mouth opened slightly… then closed.
No more protests.
Hitler extended his hand.
The gesture was slow. Almost ritual.
Wilhelm stared at it.
Then took it firmly.
The shake was brief.
But final.
"We will arrive by noon," Hitler said, settling deeper into the leather seat. "And by evening, the weight you carried for thirty years will pass to someone else."
He looked out the window now.
"You will walk free."
The silence returned.
Outside, the pine trees passed by like silent guards. The horses' hooves rang like drums down the frozen road. Inside, neither man spoke — two soldiers, one of ideology, one of legacy, riding together in a box lined with velvet and ghosts.
The old world was behind them.
The capital waited ahead.