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2.

Of Dreams Come True

When Gilbert was twenty, he had finally snapped. Ludwig was only thirteen at the time.

There was glass on the floor.

There was blood on the wall.

And then they were gone – Gilbert carrying along two battered suitcases; one for him and one for Ludwig. Ludwig was holding onto his hand. He was trying not to cry. His brother wasn't crying. He had to be a big boy. Mamma wasn't there anymore – she hadn't been for a long time.

The gravel burned beneath their feet.

The wind ran its fingers through their hair.

Gilbert smiled at the horizon and Ludwig forgot for a moment that everything was going wrong in their world.

It had taken them a day and a half to get to Berlin. Gilbert was smirking triumphantly as he strutted through the streets, looking as if he owned the world. Ludwig didn't try to copy his swagger and lagged behind him, gawking at the buildings and the people in their fancy clothing. The sky was the colour of metal and the air smelled of tobacco. Ludwig inhaled deeply.

"We're finally here, Ludwig!" Gilbert spun on his heel and grabbed Ludwig's shoulders, shaking him excitedly. "Wir haben es geschafft! We did it!" Ludwig mirrored his brother's grin.

Together, hand in hand, they went down the road, a skip in their step and a churning feeling of happiness and anxiety in their stomaches. The people smiled and some scoffed.

And Berlin; oh Berlin, with its skies of broken clouds and leaking sunlight, became home to a young man with eyes like set rubies in snow and a boy with hair as yellow as the rapeseed flowers that bloomed in the fields.