The sky above Berlin hung low and heavy, a suffocating blanket of bruised purple and charcoal grey that seemed to press the very breath out of the city. It was late 1944, and the capital of the Reich was no longer a city of stone and mortar, but a skeletal necropolis of jagged silhouettes against the dying light. The air tasted of pulverized brick, sulfur, and the sickly-sweet rot of things buried too long beneath the rubble.
Friedrich Müller paused, leaning heavily on his shovel. At sixty-eight, his body was a map of aches, his joints grinding together with the same gritty friction as the debris he was forced to clear. The yellow armband of the *Volkssturm* felt like a shackle around the sleeve of his threadbare wool coat. He was a clockmaker by trade, a man who had spent a lifetime revering the precise, rhythmic ticking of gears and the orderly passage of seconds. Now, his world was defined by the chaotic, thunderous silence that followed the falling bombs.
He stood within the hollowed-out carcass of what had once been a public library near Alexanderplatz. The roof was gone, sheared off by a blockbuster bomb weeks ago, leaving the upper floors exposed to the biting wind. Snowflakes, grey with ash, drifted down onto the mounds of books that lay like slaughtered birds, their pages fluttering helplessly in the draft.
"Keep moving, old man," a voice barked from the street, but Friedrich ignored it, feigning the deafness that had become his primary defense mechanism.
He knelt near a section of wall that had miraculously remained upright. His gloved hand, trembling slightly from a combination of cold and caloric deficiency, brushed aside a layer of shattered glass. There, wedged between a fallen beam and the plaster, was a book. It wasn't just any book; the spine, though scorched, bore the gold-leaf lettering of Goethe's *Faust*.
Friedrich reached for it. The weight was wrong.
Decades of handling delicate mainsprings and balance wheels had given him an intuitive sense of mass and density. The book was too heavy on the right side. He glanced over his shoulder. The street was empty save for the distant, rhythmic thud of artillery fire to the east. He opened the cover. The pages had been glued together, the center hollowed out with surgical precision to form a cavity. Nestled inside was a dull, metal canister, no larger than a roll of coins, sealed with wax.
His heart hammered against his ribs, a frantic, irregular rhythm that terrified him. Looting was a capital offense. Men were hanging from lampposts not three blocks away, placards around their necks proclaiming them traitors to the people.
He pried the canister loose, the metal biting into his freezing palm.
*Crunch.*
The sound of a boot crushing broken glass echoed through the library's shell. It was a deliberate, heavy step. Not the shuffle of a refugee, but the stride of authority.
Friedrich didn't turn immediately. He shoved the canister deep into the inner pocket of his coat, beneath layers of rags, just as a shadow fell over him. He hunched his shoulders, making himself smaller, more pathetic. He picked up a piece of masonry, pretending to work.
"You there. Halt."
The voice was dry, devoid of warmth. Friedrich turned slowly, affecting a vacant, senile stare. Standing ten feet away was Inspector Hans Weber. The man was a spectre in a long leather trench coat, the collar turned up against the wind. His face was gaunt, the skin pulled tight over sharp cheekbones, his eyes scanning the ruins with the predatory focus of a hawk. In his right hand, hanging loosely by his side, was a Luger.
"I said halt," Weber repeated, stepping closer. The leather of his coat creaked.
"Just clearing... just clearing the path, sir," Friedrich mumbled, his voice cracking. He allowed his hands to shake visibly, holding up the piece of brick as if it were an offering. "The Sergeant... he said clear the library."
Weber stopped a yard away. He smelled of tobacco and peppermint, a jarringly civilized scent in the midst of decay. He looked at the pile of books, then at the hollow in the rubble where Friedrich had found the *Faust*.
"You were lingering," Weber said. His eyes drilled into Friedrich's. They were tired eyes, Friedrich realized. Eyes that had seen too much and now saw nothing but guilt. "Looters are shot on sight. You know this."
"Looting?" Friedrich let out a wheezing, nervous laugh. "Books, Inspector? What use is an old man for books? I can't eat paper. I can't burn it for enough heat to warm a flea."
Weber didn't smile. He holstered the Luger, but the threat remained. He stepped forward, invading Friedrich's personal space, his gloved hands patting down the outside of Friedrich's coat. Friedrich held his breath, his lungs burning. The canister pressed against his ribs like a hot coal. Weber's hand brushed over the bulge.
Time seemed to stop. The internal clock in Friedrich's mind missed a beat.
Weber paused. His fingers lingered on the lump in the pocket. He looked at Friedrich, his expression unreadable. A micro-expression flickered across the Inspector's face—not anger, but something akin to resignation, or perhaps curiosity.
"A man your age," Weber said softly, his voice dropping an octave, "should be careful what he carries. The weight of some things... it can break a back that is already bending."
Friedrich stared back, his mouth slightly open, maintaining the ruse of the confused elder. "It's just... my medicine, sir. For the joints."
Weber stared at him for a long second, the silence stretching until it was thin enough to snap. Then, abruptly, he stepped back.
"Go home, Müller," Weber said, using a name Friedrich hadn't offered. The Inspector knew him. "The curfew is in twenty minutes. If I see you on the street after that, I won't be the one searching you."
Without waiting for a response, Weber turned on his heel and walked away, his boots crunching over the debris, heading toward a group of soldiers gathering at the intersection.
Friedrich waited until the Inspector was out of sight before he exhaled, a cloud of white vapor escaping his lips. His legs felt like water. He didn't wait. He dropped the shovel and scrambled over the ruins, heading for the labyrinth of alleyways that led to his basement apartment.
The journey home was a blur of shadows and fear. Every distant shout sounded like an accusation; every engine roar sounded like the Gestapo. He reached his building—a tenement that had lost its top two floors—and descended into the cellar.
The air in the basement was damp and frigid, but it was safe. He bolted the heavy wooden door and lit a single tallow candle. The flame sputtered, casting long, dancing shadows against the peeling wallpaper.
Friedrich sat at his workbench, a small island of order in a chaotic world. Tiny screws, springs, and escapements lay scattered across the velvet pad, remnants of a life before the war. With trembling fingers, he pulled the canister from his pocket.
It was heavy, cold, and seamless. He placed it under the magnifying glass he used for watch repair. There was a hairline fracture near the top. He took a fine-tipped screwdriver and applied pressure.
With a hiss of escaping air, the cap unscrewed.
Friedrich upended the canister. Two items slid out onto the velvet.
The first was a glass vial, clear liquid shimmering inside. The label was typed: *Insulin - Rapid Acting*.
The second was a scrap of paper, folded tightly. Friedrich unfolded it, smoothing the creases with his thumb. The handwriting was hurried, jagged, as if written on a moving surface.
*"The Angel of Charité. Sector 4. Tonight. 02:00. Do not fail us."*
Friedrich stared at the note. The Charité hospital was miles away, deep in the heart of the government district, a fortress of misery. And *The Angel*... it sounded like a code, or a myth.
He looked at the insulin. In a city where bread was gold, this vial was a diamond. It could save a life. Or, given the note, it could cost him his.
The old clockmaker looked up at the wall where a cuckoo clock, miraculously unbroken, hung silent. He reached up and pushed the pendulum.
*Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock.*
Time had started moving again, but now, it was counting down.