The only photo of herself that she had was taken on a warm summer day instead of the snowy nights of the Arctic. Not under the dim midnight sun of the North Pole but the golden rays shining above the eastern seaboard of America. Not on the frozen, windswept plains of the fjords of Norway but the sun-kissed boardwalk of Coney Island. Not a lone warrior of the Kriegsmarine, but an ordinary woman wearing ordinary clothing, holding an ordinary ice cream cone, and having an ordinary moment in an ordinary holiday. It wasn't the only photo taken of her, of course, but it was the one that the photographer reserved for her, and she kept it on her desk next to the framed picture of her sister.

The photo was to be treasured, for it, in the photographer's words, was the perfect summation of her small journey to find herself.

A journey that began with an interview.

The alliance they were part of had a publication dedicated to publicizing the deeds and stories of the various ships and people that comprised it, and like its prided fleet, it was staffed by diverse individuals from all around the world, civilians and military alike. Even some KANSENs had stints in its ranks.

Tirpitz wasn't all too keen to be the subject of an article, let alone being on the lens of a camera, but Bismarck, who apparently had been in the same situation, was surprisingly receptive to the idea of her sister being featured in the publication. She wondered if Bismarck was testing, or worse, teasing her by doing this, but that seemed as likely as Admiral Hipper becoming a sweet girl. She settled with the notion that Bismarck was just the older sibling who wanted to see the younger sibling getting some recognition. Whether deserved or undeserved remains to be seen, of course.

The reporter in charge of her article, however, was someone new, a fresh face. An Engländer named Christopher Hawke, whose eyes were bright and curious and who had the accent of a gentleman who knew more than just his manners. In short, quite a disarming fellow.

"Hello, Miss Tirpitz. Thank you for sparing some time to do an interview with me," said a smiling Hawke as he took a seat opposite hers in the German Navy quarters' lounge, setting his things down on the table between them. "The Blue Herald is always looking forward to writing about new arrivals. Get people to know them better."

"I hope I can help, then."

"Don't worry. We won't be talking about the war. That's been done enough already, I think. This will be more of a 'get-to-know-you' type. But worry not; I will not go around asking too many personal questions. Only the bare minimum to satisfy the readers—or my editors, heh."

He chuckled at his own joke. Tirpitz managed a weak smile, but her expression quickly became solemn.

"I'm... not used to this," she said.

"Interviews?"

"Being talked to. People are usually wary of me."

"Take your time. I'm a reasonably patient man. I mean, I once waited nine hours just for an interview. Anyway, enough about me. How would you like to start this off? Anything you're comfortable talking about? Any hobbies, perhaps? What's your favorite book? Or your favorite band? You can talk about whatever you're comfortable with sharing."

"Well..." Tirpitz crossed her arms and legs, trying to make herself look smaller, and looked down at her feet.

And that was the moment she realized she basically had no life outside military affairs.

She looked back up at the reporter, who had a sympathetic look on his face, but there was no pity. That was comforting, at least.

"I... don't really have hobbies," she hesitated, wondering about the prospect of an article where she said nothing more than 'I'm a KANSEN' and 'I don't have hobbies'. "And I don't listen to music often."

"What about movies?"

"I don't watch those either."

"...Hmm...I see. Well, that's fine, that's fine. What do you do when you're not deployed on patrols or drills? Do you have a routine?"

"Not really," said Tirpitz, not without a degree of guilt. "I usually read books on naval warfare."

"Ah, I see. Do any of those stick out? Maybe we can go from there."

"I don't think your readers will be interested in books on tactics and strategies."

"Well, our readers are not only civilians but also officers. Maybe they could benefit from your insight, no?"

"Insights from decades ago? I'm sure all of them already knew the contents of those books, maybe even more."

Hawke paused, looking at her with a neutral expression, and for a second, Tirpitz feared she had come across as uncooperative before the reporter smiled.

"You know, Miss Tirpitz," said Hawke, "I think I have an idea for this interview. But, well, it would be quite unusual and a bit unconventional. Therefore, I have a proposal."

"Go on."

"May I see you on your day off?"

Tirpitz blinked. "What does this have to do with my day off?"

"I'm proposing that we look for something you might enjoy outside the confines of the base. It could be anything, really, but I'll leave that to your discretion."

"What are you implying, Mr. Hawke?"

"I'm simply suggesting that it's time for you to broaden your horizon. See what's beyond the battlefield. Go on, see the world and all that."

"I see..." Tirpitz thought it over. On one hand, the idea sounded rather silly. Frivolous, even. How could she try to enjoy something with someone she didn't know watching her? On the other hand, though, the proposal felt earnest, even if the person who made it seemed to only see it as a job. And she did want to get this over quickly, anyway.

"How will this affect the interview?"

"Nothing. I can always come back for the interview after we're done. No rush."

"Hm... very well. I think we could try..." she sighed, wondering if she would immensely regret this decision. Not that she's a foreigner to that feeling. He seemed a little surprised that she accepted so easily but quickly composed himself.

"Right. Then I shall meet you here again on..."

"Friday, 0900 hours. I'm free then."

"Noted," he stood up and gave a small bow. "I will see you then, Miss Tirpitz. Until next time."

And he left, leaving Tirpitz in the middle of the quiet lounge. Thankfully, her peers were not around, especially Eugen and Heinrich. She didn't want to deal with the former's merciless teasing or the latter's endless curiosity.

Getting out of her room during her off days was one thing. Actually going off base and into the outside world was another. Tirpitz had done that before, albeit only to accompany Bismarck. Her sister, despite being the stoic flagship, did enjoy a break once in a while. She'd be taking her out for coffee or dinner, sometimes a movie, which she did not particularly enjoy but still tolerated because her sister asked her to.

Friday was only two days away, and Tirpitz found herself restless as the time went on.

Was this really such a good idea?

Would this really help?

Why did the reporter suggest it in the first place?

Better yet, why did she agree to this?

All these thoughts plagued her as she paced back and forth in the confines of her room.

In the end, it was just a simple excursion, even if with a stranger, she reassured herself. And The Blue Herald was no dirt-digging tabloid. No scandalous articles will get past their editors.

That was enough to quell her nervousness. For now.

'Bah. I should just forget about this until Friday.'

As agreed upon, Hawke was waiting in front of the quarters at 0900 hours. Tirpitz found it oddly relieving that he wasn't dressing up—this was just a job for him, after all.

He was still wearing an unflattering shirt and jeans combination paired with a bomber jacket that, while not exactly ratty, had definitely been worn a few times. His brown hair was combed just enough to not look like a bird's nest.

She herself opted for a turtleneck and ankle-length skirt, which was not exactly grandiose because that would be unnecessary.

"Good day, Miss Tirpitz," said Hawke, a small bag slung over his shoulder. His smile was the same as before, and she was relieved he made no comment about her appearance, even if just to be polite.

"Likewise," she replied, giving a small nod. "So...where to first?"

"Well, I'd let you decide, but I could offer suggestions. Like, since you seem like a contemplative person, I'd suggest something artsy or philosophical."

"You don't think I'd enjoy anything fun?"

"Different people have different ideas of fun," Hawke chuckled. "Besides, this is your day, not mine. You're the boss. If, say, the Met isn't to your liking, we can always go somewhere else."

"The Met?"

"Metropolitan Museum of Art."

"Ah."

Perhaps that was as good a starting place as any.

"Alright then, let's go."

Hawke paid for the transport and the fare to the museum itself, claiming that he got expenses covered, which Tirpitz found curious but didn't really question.

The grand, old-style building stood like a proud giant in the heart of New York City. The white facade was polished, and the pillars were gleaming, the windows clean, and the grounds well-tended. The steps leading up to the entrance were packed with tourists and art enthusiasts, all mingling and chatting about what they'd see inside.

Faced with a choice of where to go first, Tirpitz looked at the guidebook she had taken from the counter. The guidebook was filled with colorful photographs and descriptions of various displays and artifacts housed within.

"What do you think?"

"Hm. Well, you can always start with European arts, I guess? More familiar to you, no doubt."

Perhaps. She thought it'd be best to start from a familiar territory. So she allowed him to show the way.

Hawke kept a leisurely pace, always maintaining a distance, and didn't ask questions as they walked from one painting to another. Unclothed ladies, historical and unknown persons, holy men and women, landscapes of places she had never seen before, and mundane objects, all immortalized in oil and canvas and paper.

Though the meaning of most was lost on her, Tirpitz found herself thinking about each one. The brushstrokes and colors, the shapes, and the expressions. What the artists thought of when they were making these pieces. What the models were feeling. Was the artist thinking about the meaning or did they paint whatever came to mind?

Things she didn't know she would be pondering.

Hawke waited as she took her time. He wasn't even looking at his phone.

It was strange.

When was the last time someone had waited for her like this?

She couldn't remember.

The answer didn't bother her as much as she thought it would.

Greek and Roman art was next, and millennia-old statues and statuettes, carved by hands long gone and forgotten, welcomed them, some staring back with their inscrutable archaic smile. There was also an inordinate number of amphorae and fragments of bigger pieces, along with an assortment of small pottery and stone tablets.

The relics made her feel oddly small. Maybe even insignificant.

She glanced at Hawke, whose smile was just as unreadable as the one on the head of Herakles she'd just seen.

"What do...you think of these?"

Wait, why did she ask that? He was the one doing the interview, wasn't he? But it was too late to take it back.

Hawke scratched his chin, looking thoughtful.

"...Pretty humbling, isn't it? These statues are one thing, but these everyday objects—pottery and tools, mostly—are what makes me really think. These people had no idea that the things they touched would become a piece of history, and we still have some of them. To the people of ancient times, they're just tools, but now they are something that teaches us about their lives."

"Huh. That's quite profound, Mr. Hawke."

"Thank you," he grinned. "I just love the idea of everyday objects having more significance than one could imagine. They are so normal, yet so fascinating, don't you think?"

"I guess you can look at them that way."

"Anyway, shall we move on to the next wing?"

"Yes, please."

They passed the Egyptian and Asian wings and finally the Oceanian one, and looking at cultures from the opposite side of the planet felt surreal yet stirring. She wondered if the people who lived there felt the same way when looking at her art and culture.

Their next stop, the last because she had decided that was enough seeing old things for the day, was the arms and armor section. Martial relics from every country, all witnesses to man's propensity for conflict.

Ancient blades whose edges had been dulled by time, gilded panoplies of royalties, and unburnished chest plates of common soldiers were lined up on display. Further down the gallery were an assortment of pistols and muskets from the age of gunpowder, kept under glass cases.

Tirpitz wasn't entirely sure what she wanted to see in this section, given her own distaste for violence. Maybe it was the warrior in her. Maybe it was the need for her to make sense of the fact that she was born for war, yet she couldn't understand why she was.

"This is an interesting exhibit, isn't it? You're being the most curious here."

"I suppose."

"I hope we can discuss your thoughts on the museum later on if that's okay with you. You've been very quiet, though."

"Sorry, I was...just thinking."

"Ah. Of course."

Hawke didn't prod further, and they finished the tour with lunch in the museum café.

"So, do you have any comments on the museum? What was your favorite part?"

"It was...interesting," Tirpitz started, looking down at her coffee, which was not as black as she would have preferred, but she could still tolerate the drink. "I wasn't expecting it, to be honest. But it was nice. It was...peaceful. Quiet and serene. It makes you stop and think. It makes me think about a lot of things."

"Like what, if I may ask?"

"The artists, the models, the people who made these pieces, and the ones who will look at them centuries from now. The ones who made them have already passed, but their works live on. I, myself, have been made for war, and one day, I'll be gone again, too. When I'm gone, will someone remember me as something other than a warship?"

She sighed and looked at Hawke.

"Sorry. Was that too much?"

"No, no, not at all," Hawke said, writing in his notepad, a warm smile on his face. "But do let me know if you wanted anything you said to be off the record, and I'll honor that."

"Noted."

"What about the display of arms and armor? They are fundamentally different than artworks, and you were spending more time looking at them than the others. They are not exactly things I'd associate with the word peaceful."

Tirpitz nursed her cup of coffee, thinking back to the armor and swords and muskets, and even the small things like old spurs. She thought of how they were once used, and who had used them. From the Turks to the Mongols, from the British to the Americans. Those who lived by the sword died by the sword, the old saying went, and that was probably true for most of the weapons on display.

"They remind me of my sisters and me, in a way. We were once tools to wage war...but now, in this...form, what are we, really? Are we just like the weapons on display, or do we serve a greater purpose?"

Hawke stopped jotting down notes, and his smile faded.

"...Was that too gloomy?"

"Oh, no, not at all," he laughed weakly. "I'm just surprised, is all. I've never interviewed a KANSEN before. Those who did told me that the ones they talked to were happy to be there...well, at least, as happy as warships can be. My senior did a piece on your sister before. He said she was more open than her reputation would suggest."

"Really...well, Bismarck is different from me. She is not a pessimist but rather a realist. I suppose I'm the opposite."

Hawke seemed pensive for a moment, taking quick glances at his notes before looking back at her.

"May I be completely honest with you, Miss Tirpitz?"

"Go ahead."

"Your words are a little concerning. Do you mind if I ask why you are so pessimistic about your existence?"

"Do you know my history, Mr. Hawke? What they used to call me in the past?"

"I...read a bit about you, just in case I'd need it for the interview. But not much, to be honest."

"Then you'd have known that the ship that I once was, one of the largest and most powerful ever built by any navy, could not serve the purpose for which she was made until she was struck down. The powers that be decided she was too valuable to be let out in the open, and so the ship Tirpitz was tied down in the Norwegian fjords as a boogeyman to keep the Allies on their toes. She was the Lonely Queen of the North, a queen unable to do anything until her last moments. And what an undignified end it was."

Tirpitz's gaze fell on her reflection on the surface of her coffee, distorted and rippling. Hawke knitted his brow and leaned back on his chair. Tirpitz guessed he was trying to process what he just heard. She could almost hear the gears grinding inside his head.

"...I...suppose I can't begin to imagine what it's like, to be denied your purpose because you're too valuable to lose, only to end up losing yourself, and then reborn, again, not as a ship, but...this. I'm not sure if it's any consolation, but the Tirpitz of today has the chance to do some good. Or, if I may be so bold, live the life the Tirpitz of the past didn't."

"Live the life...?" She repeated the words, each syllable sounding like a foreign tongue.

"That's what us humans do, after all. As we go about our lives, we find new purposes. Sometimes easily, sometimes not. The Tirpitz of the past, the ship Tirpitz, had no purpose but war. Now that you are free from that, you can find something else, don't you think?"

Tirpitz fell silent. She wanted to dismiss that, but something about those words lingered in her mind. Something she hadn't thought of before. It was like having a little flame lit up in the darkest corner of her soul, a tiny flame a single misstep could easily extinguish.

She wasn't sure if the reporter had noticed. If he did, he wasn't showing it.

"Apologies if I spoke out of line."

"No, not at all." She waved him off. "I...I didn't think of it that way. I...I'll have to think about it."

"Take your time. You could find the answers today, or tomorrow, or next week. Or even months from now. But only if you start looking. And it's never too late to. It's always worth it."

Tirpitz couldn't help but feel her lips curl upward, even if only a little.

"Are you sure you're a reporter? That sounded awfully philosophical."

"Well, I did minor in philosophy. Just thought it'd be interesting, and it was. Anyway, apologies if I spoke too much," Hawke finished his notes and tucked the pad and pencil back into his bag before downing his cup in one gulp, which certainly was only possible because the tea inside had gone cold.

"Are you going to write all that down in your article?"

"The museum part? Yes. The rest depends. Off or on?"

"Off," Tirpitz let out a dry chuckle. "For now."

"Understood. Now, where to next? It's still noon..."

Tirpitz definitely had no place in mind, and she was about to say it until something clicked in her head.

"I don't mind just walking around. How...about showing places that you like instead?"

For once, he was caught off guard.

"Come again?"

"You showed me a place that I could like. Now, I'd like to see the places you like."

He blinked a few times, scratching his chin.

"Are you sure?"

"Call it learning to live. Maybe. I could learn from you or something like that. Or not. You can also say no, and we can just walk around, and you can show me the way. Or not."

He hesitated some more, tapping his fingers relentlessly on the table.

"I..."

"Don't want to bore me? If you bore me, I'd have let you know already."

"Well...alright then."

Tirpitz paid for the meal—with her money, not his—and they left the museum. The sun was at its highest, and the crowds were out and about.

"So...where to?"

Hawke took a moment, looking around the plaza, the people, and the buildings, as if he was thinking.

"Guess we could begin by hitting the storefronts."

"Storefronts?"

"Yes, the storefronts. Come."

Not the glamor and glitz of Fifth Avenue, nor the bustle of Broadway, but the nooks and crannies and hidden alleyways of the side streets. The places that would pass as unnoteworthy, yet had something special about them. And so she soon found herself being immersed in a world of the New Yorker she had never seen before, not through the eyes of her sister or her commander.

Browsing rare vinyl and dusty tomes and exotic blooms, listening to an unknown jazz singer playing the trumpet, watching a sculptor making an eagle out of a block of stone in his workshop. In place of Starbucks, a bodega staffed by smiling émigrés.

It was a quieter world. One that she could not imagine living in, and she doubted she'd like to. But one she came to appreciate. Quiet, but not solitary.

Hawke explained his reasons for liking the places he did. He liked the record shop because he was a sucker for old tunes. The florist because the owner's wife had made a bouquet for his mom on her wedding anniversary, and his mom loved it. The bookstore because there were always old magazines sold for peanuts. The sculptor because his father was a carver.

"And you can learn a lot from these places, as you can from museums. Only these people are for the present. And that's just as important as learning from the past."

Tirpitz wondered if, had she been born a human, she would have become someone who would love the little things as much.

But as he'd said, one can learn to.

And she was learning, too.

It was a day worth remembering—and one that ended too soon before she could fully realize it.

When the sun set, she knew the day was over.

"...I don't know how this will help with your article, so sorry if today was a waste," she spoke, breaking the silence of the ride home.

"Not at all. I learned a lot."

And so did she, though she didn't tell him that.

"And besides, the article isn't due until the end of the month, so no worries."

"Does that mean..."

"Afraid you're stuck with me until then."

He laughed at his own joke again. Her own was softer and weaker, but still, she laughed along.

Maybe that wouldn't be too bad.


For once, Tirpitz decided to read something other than her usual books.

In the week that followed, a used copy of Hemingway's A Farewell to Arms would sit on her lap every night, its pages creased and yellowing and the paperback cover wrinkled and scratched.

It was the most human thing she'd ever read and the most tragic.

War was a senseless, brutal thing, and the notion resonated within her. She wondered if Hawke recommended the title when they browsed that old bookstore because he thought it'd fit her tastes, but she brushed it off. There was no way he'd know.

It came as a surprise, but reading to the end by the fourth night, she felt a pang upon finding out that Catherine was dead. It was not because of the fact itself but the implications.

Fate had dealt the cards, and her hand was a bad one.

But in the brief moments she and Henry had, they had fallen in love.

And be happy.

Be happy.

Was that the message she was meant to get from the story?

Did he intend that?

Why was she feeling this way, anyway?

It was only a book, and the story was fictional.

Or was it?

Perhaps a small part of her could relate to Frederic Henry.

A tired, disillusioned fighter looking for meaning in a life wrought with the blood of others.

Was that really how she was?

She put the book away, deciding that she'd try to get a different title. Hawke will take her out again, as he did before. He'll take her to another part of New York, and it could be a day of quiet or noisy exploration. Either was fine.

Her mind drifted, and for the first time, she didn't find herself thinking about the past.

Not even the slightest bit.

It was a strange feeling.

She didn't know what to think, but the more she thought, the more she came to appreciate what had happened and what was happening.

Another Friday morning, she was getting ready when she noticed Bismarck standing at her doorway.

"What is it, Schwester?"

"Another day out?"

"Yes."

"Are you enjoying yourself?"

Tirpitz paused, her hands lingering on the buttons of her blouse.

"I suppose."

"That's good. It's nice seeing you like this."

"Like what?"

"You know. You don't seem as gloomy as before. I'm glad."

She wasn't sure what her sister meant. Did she look happier? Was she acting differently? She didn't feel different.

But her sister had a knack for reading her and the others, more so than Tirpitz could read herself.

"I'm glad," Bismarck gave her a small smile and closed the door.

"You are not the only one," Tirpitz muttered to herself and continued buttoning up.

Hawke was waiting at the usual spot, and the routine was the same as before.

"So, where are we going today?"

"Today? I've done some thinking and made plans. Hope you won't find me presumptuous."

"And what is it?"

"Food, for one. But that'll come later. I'd like to show you more things."

More things, as he would call it. More little things. More little bits and pieces of the world. Or maybe something a bit bigger.

Was this still about the interview? The question was always at the back of her mind, but it didn't bother her as much.

Not anymore.

The drive took them to Queens, a borough she had never been in.

He took them to Flushing Meadows, where the Unisphere stood, a monument to progress and hope. In the distance was the New York State Pavilion.

"This, and that building over there, was built for the World's Fair of '64," Hawke said as they strolled through the park, the silver orb getting closer and closer with each step. "The organizers were trying to show the world that humanity could make a better future for everyone. The same goes for the one in 1939, The World of Tomorrow, where ACs, TVs, and all the modern conveniences we enjoy today were shown for the first time."

"Just when the war was brewing in Europe, huh," Tirpitz replied. "How ironic."

"It was supposed to be the opposite, but I guess it was. Four months into the fair, the war broke out. That was a very interesting, if sad, coincidence."

"You like these kinds of things, don't you?"

"My dad may be a Royal Marine for life, but he's also a big history nerd. He told me many stories about the wars he and Gramps fought in—Western Front, Korea, Falklands, and Persian Gulf. But he told me more stories about the cities he'd visited, the monuments he'd seen, the places he'd been to. I think that's what got me hooked on history, too."

"Is that why you went to work as a journalist, then? So you could see these places for yourself?"

"You could say that. And now, here I am, working in the city that's the capital of the world, or at least, that's what it likes to say, covering the exploits of people like you."

"And now, here I am," Tirpitz echoed the words. "Here I am, seeing all these places and talking about the past."

"You know, my old man once told me that the past is where you left it, and the present is where you live. You can learn from the past, but you can't stay there forever. The future will catch up to you whether you're ready or not, so might as well live in the moment."

Tirpitz didn't speak, and he continued.

"You read the book, I assume?"

"I did. What does that have to do with anything?"

"See how Henry and Catherine lived the best they could. You're alive right now. So you should do the same. Live the best you can. Life is short, but it's beautiful. So don't miss out."

"Live the best I can," she repeated the words.

"Yup. You can live however you want. Do lots of things, just like what we've been doing. Sometimes, if it gets too much, you can always go back home and rest. Just do your best every day."

"I guess so."

"Try, it's all I can ask. I'd like to think you'll do just fine. You seem to have a knack for adapting."

"You...you really think so?"

"Of course. And may I take pictures? No article is complete without one."

That didn't bother her at all.

"Sure."

She wasn't sure what kind of expression she had when he snapped the shot, but Hawke didn't comment, and she figured it wouldn't matter.

One more snap, and another, each with a different backdrop. He didn't tell her to strike a certain pose or even to smile. He only said, "Look natural. Do whatever feels right."

She did.

Was she too rigid? Or perhaps she was smiling awkwardly?

Did it matter?

Probably not.

She trusted his judgment.

Hawke took mostly close-ups, making intricate poses needless, and he took his time.

"Thank you," he said, and that was that.

"What now?"

"We head to Brooklyn. Time for lunch."

Quite a distance for only a simple lunch. He must have something up his sleeve.

But that was fine.

Anything was fine.

The boardwalks of Steeplechase Pier were alive with youthful exuberance and the smells of fried food. Tirpitz had never seen anything like it. Not in Kiel or Bremerhaven, and definitely not in the Arctic.

The crowd milled about, many with treats in their hands, and the cacophony of their footfalls and chatter and the calls of the carnies were almost deafening.

"Welcome to Coney Island, the playground of the world," Hawke declared, arms open wide as if presenting the place himself.

"Playground?"

"Yup. That's what it is. Life, as it should be. Don't be afraid to be a sweet summer child sometimes."

"Sweet summer child..."

"Innocent, that is. Without a care. Just for today. Do whatever your heart desires, and live in the moment. That's the spirit of the place. Or so I've heard."

Tirpitz thought it was a joke, but he wasn't joking at all. He was dead serious, even if the smile on his face belied his earnestness.

"...How?"

That's it. She could only ask how.

"Well, let's get some food first," he pointed his thumb to the rows of stalls and the signs advertising corn dogs and funnel cakes and Nathan's hotdogs and the like. All the greasy fare only Americans could possibly think of. Except for the clams. They didn't look as bad, and she was willing to give them a try.

After all, she was feeling a little hungry.

So she followed him, and they found themselves walking and eating along the boardwalk, her with a box of steamed clams and a lemonade, him with a hotdog and a Coke.

"So, what do you think?"

"Hmm..." She took a sip, savoring the tangy, zesty flavor. "Not bad."

"Yeah, not bad," he said. "Sometimes you gotta try something that's not beer, eh?"

"I don't drink beer all the time, Mr. Hawke," she countered, and he chuckled.

"Haha, I'm sure."

"I don't," she reiterated. "What about yourself? The Engländer finally having something that's not tea, I see."

"Touche. Did you just make a joke, by the way?"

"...I don't know."

"See, you're getting there. Making jokes. Living the best life."

They were both smiling, and she was laughing, albeit softly, and he was too, but louder

It was a pleasant meal.

"What now?"

"Anything your heart desires."

She didn't have anything particular in mind, so she looked around. The place had everything she didn't think she could get used to. The colors are often gaudy, the people too much, and the sun scorching hot.

But there she was, charmed by the atmosphere.

The coast was not too far away, the blue of the Atlantic shining bright. The sands were packed with beachgoers, many already dipping into the waters, the women in their bikinis and the men shirtless.

Not that she wanted a dip, but a walk along the shore seemed nice.

"Let's walk over there," she pointed.

"Sure. Let's do it."

So they did walk along the sandy expanse, the surf coming in and out and the sun shining overhead.

It was hot, and having a full stomach, itself a rarity for her, slowed her pace to a relaxed stroll.

It was probably a meaningless thing, unlike those they'd been to, but it was no less worth doing. She removed her boots, and the warm sand felt soft under her toes.

She had no idea why she'd done that, but she liked the sensation, so she did. So very different from the hard floors of her cabin or the concrete and stone of the city.

"I've never done this," she told him.

"Done what?"

"Walking barefoot. Is this something people do when they go to the beach?"

"Sometimes. Not everybody. Some prefer not to. But some do, especially kids. It's fun. See."

He followed suit, removing his shoes and socks and rolling his pants up to his knees. "Ahh, freedom."

"Freedom?"

"Freedom," he echoed the word. "Well, I feel free. Less restricted. You know what I mean?"

She looked at the sands wedged between her toes, the tiny grains shifting with every step.

"Yes, I think so."

"Good. Feels good, right?"

"Yes, yes, it does."

"And it's a nice day, isn't it?"

"It is," she replied.

"One of those summer days you wish would always be there. Slow, lazy."

"It's like a dream."

"Yeah, except it's not. It's real."

"And this is reality."

"Yes."

"I can't believe it. If you told me a few weeks ago that I'd be here, on this beach, eating and walking, I'd never believe it. It seems impossible."

"That's the magic of life. Anything can happen."

"Is this...part of the interview, too?"

"Hm? In a way. But I guess...now, I see it as more than that. It's a bit more than a simple interview now. Is something wrong?"

She wished to say, yes. Yes, because this was all so very strange and foreign. It was too good, too perfect.

It wasn't possible.

It couldn't be.

She could have never dreamed that she could feel so alive, so happy.

All in a span of two weeks, two weeks that overturned her entire world.

How?

Why?

There were no answers, no matter how hard she tried to think.

She could not go back to how she was before, a ghost trapped in a living hell.

She would never.

It wasn't a dream.

The wind blowing against her face, the grains of sand caressing her feet, and the heat of the sun and the scent of the ocean were all too real.

Life, as it should be, as it had always been.

She's living it now, like the kids making sandcastles, or the families barbecuing, or the people playing in the water, or the couples kissing and hugging.

They were all alive, living the best they could.

Was this really all right?

Was this something she could keep doing, as he had told her?

"Mr. Hawke," she called out.

"Hm?"

"Is...is it really alright? Is this something I can keep doing? Like you said, I can just live in the moment and have the best life, no matter what happens. Is that okay?"

"Eh, as long as nobody's hurt, especially yourself, I'd say yes. There's no reason not to. You can try. Give it a shot."

"Okay, then," she took a deep breath, inhaling the saltiness of the sea.

Then she kicked up the sand, sending tiny, sparkling bits flying through the air.

"Whoa, easy, there!"

Hawke was agape, and his eyes were wide.

She looked back and smiled, a small smile that was genuine.

"Ah...that was pretty nice."

"That's the spirit," Hawke clapped as soon as he remembered to close his mouth. "There you go. There you go. That was amazing. How was it? Do you feel better?"

Tirpitz exhaled, and she closed her eyes, letting the sun's rays wash over her face.

"Yes. I do. Very much."

"Good. I hope that puts you in the mood for ice cream because I'm feeling one."

"Ice cream?"

"Yeah, ice cream. Hope you still have room for dessert. We'll be getting one."

"Oh. Sure. Sounds great."

And they were off.

"So, how was it?" Hawke asked as they ate their cones on a bench on the boardwalk. She had chocolate, the flavor everyone started with, while he had pistachio, a green color that was alien to her.

"Cold..."

"No kidding. That's why it's ice cream, haha. Good, though, right?"

"...It's not like the cold I remember. This one has a nice, sweet taste. It's good. I think I could like it."

Hawke hummed his approval and stood, holding his camera in one hand and the cold treat in the other.

"May I...? This one is not included in the article. It will be just for you. Just between us."

"For me?"

"Yeah. Just for you. No need to pose, just keep on eating."

"Um...okay."

A click, and the shutter snapped.

"There we go."

"Why?"

"Because you look like you're enjoying the moment. I mean, really into it. I realize that it will take a while for you to get used to these things, and it will be difficult and a little scary at times. But, I'm telling you, it's worth the effort. Consider it a reminder. You'll find yourself in the end, I know it."

"Mr. Hawke..."

"Actually, just call me Hawke, if you don't mind."

"Hawke. Why are you doing all this? For just an interview, isn't this too much?"

"Perhaps. And as a journalist, I should be detached, isn't it? But first and foremost, I am a human being, a fellow human being. You're just another person, like everyone else, and I see no reason why I can't treat you the same way. It's the least I can do."

"And that's it?"

"Yeah, just that. No strings attached. I'll keep my word."

She didn't know what to say except a thank you.

But she knew that to do so was to acknowledge her own humanity.

Her own existence.

The same as his and everyone else.

"Thank you."

"You're welcome. Now, if you're done with your ice cream, what say we continue our little tour of Coney Island?"

"Sure. I'm ready. Lead the way."

"Roger."

The amusement park was embarrassing but fun, nonetheless. A little nauseating, a little tiring, but definitely fun.

The Aquarium, the last stop of the day, was serene and quiet—a perfect place to unwind and relax and enjoy the beauty and the majesty of the oceans and its life.

Sharks, rays, turtles, and many more, all swimming and swimming in the waters. Sometimes, they exchanged glances with her, and she could see herself reflected in their eyes.

Just another visitor, watching them from the other side.

They, too, were alive, living their lives as much as the people outside.

Just like her.

The ride back was as quiet as yesterday, but she felt at ease, the tension gone and replaced with a strange feeling.

A sense of accomplishment.

"How was it?" Hawke asked, breaking the silence.

"It was great."

"I'm glad."

"We could go out again if you're feeling up to it. Or, if you think we could finally do the interview, that's fine, too. Only if you feel ready. And if not, it's fine. It's totally okay. New York has plenty of other places to see."

"That sounds nice. But maybe I could try the interview first? After all, you did spend a lot of time helping me, and it's the least I could do. But only if you don't mind."

"No problem," he assured her.

"Over lunch. Or dinner."

Thankfully he didn't step on the brakes despite the clear surprise on his face. It was a big deal to her, too, and she found an unwelcome nervousness welling inside her, and her palms were clammy.

But his voice was even and clear, and his gaze was steady.

"Sure. Next week? I'll let you know where and when."

"Sounds good."

"Alright. I'll look forward to it. Thank you. I'll have a nice story for everyone. I promise it will be a good read."

"Thank you, Hawke," she replied, the lights of the city beginning to shine brighter as the darkness crept in, hiding her reddened cheeks.


The latest edition of The Blue Herald arrived in her hands the next month, a special copy reserved just for her. There was the headline, the very same one Hawke had jotted down in his notebook during their first meeting, and the article was as long and as detailed as it could be.

The story of an iron lady, a lost soul who had been wandering in the abyss for so long, who finally found a light to guide her home.

And at the very end, there was a picture, the same one he'd taken.

In front of the aquarium's viewing window, looking up and smiling at the sharks and the rays and the turtles behind her, and many more snapshots of her trip, her time at Coney Island, the sights she had seen, and things she learned at the museum.

She read the card that came with it and smiled.

'Thank you, Lovely Queen of the North.'

"No, thank you."

Who knew he had the capacity for sappiness?

Learning about the world was an adventure, and so was living in it.

Learning about oneself—a quest, a trial.

Learning about someone else—a gift.

And she learned so much.

And there was still much to find out.

Which reminded her.

She needed to get changed.

She couldn't afford to be late.

After all, it wouldn't do to make someone wait for too long.