Dawn’s golden fingers pried open my eyelids at seven, and the world outside dripped with amber light, filtering through the curtains like honey. The kitchen was already stirring, humming with soft sounds—the low murmur of the kettle, the rustle of a newspaper, the slow scrape of slippers on tile. Dad stood at the stove, sleeves pushed up, glasses fogged from the steam, moving with the steady ease of someone who’s done this a hundred quiet mornings before.
The air was rich with the earthy perfume of chicken soup, a broth like liquid sunshine, swirling with flecks of golden fat. He gave it a slow stir, then ladled some into my favorite old bowl—the one with the tiny crack near the rim that no one ever talks about.
He slid it toward me across the counter without a word, just a small nod and a flicker of a smile. I pulled it close, settling into the kitchen chair that still wobbled on one leg. Tender shreds of meat melted at the touch, sinking into the broth like petals on warm water. Steam curled into the air, fogging my glasses and softening the morning’s edges.
Each sip was a warm secret between my ribs, the flavor full of quiet love and early hours. Each slurp unraveled the knots of dawn’s chill, slow and steady, like the sun inching up over the fence.
Dad poured himself a cup of tea, sat across from me, and tapped the spine of a thick paperback resting near the salt shaker.
“Finished it last night,” he said, voice still gravelly from sleep. “That book—A Day in the Life of a Man. You know, the one with the guy who grew up hauling timber, then ended up fixing planes in Siberia? Real stuff. Nothing sugarcoated.”
I nodded, spoon hovering mid-air. “Was that the one with the prison camp part?”
He gave a small grunt of agreement. “Yeah. It opens with him waking up on a wooden bunk, still in his boots, because it was too cold to take them off. They had to split frozen bread with a hatchet. Worked twelve hours in minus thirty building airstrips, then came back to soup that was just hot water with cabbage.”
I made a face. “That sounds miserable.”
Dad gave a crooked smile. “It was. But the guy never complained. He just… kept going. Built things with numb hands. Repaired engines with no manuals. There’s a part where he smuggles a broken carburetor in his coat just to fix a comrade’s plane. Could’ve gotten shot for it.”
I whistled softly. “Hardcore.”
“He said the worst thing wasn’t the cold or the hunger,” Dad went on. “It was watching people forget they were human. That stuck with me.”
I nodded slowly, chewing on a piece of chicken. “I was up working on my Doom map while you were reading that. Built a lava pit under a fake monastery. So, not quite the same.”
Dad chuckled, low and brief. “Hey, everyone’s building something.”
He leaned back in his chair, eyes lingering on the steam rising from his tea. “Just make sure yours means something. Even lava pits.”
I raised an eyebrow. “So what—you want me to add, like, a tragic backstory to the demon boss?”
He smiled. “Why not? Even monsters have reasons. The guy in the book—he said the worst men he met were once good. They just forgot how.”
I stirred my soup, letting that settle. Outside, the morning kept glowing, slow and soft.
“Maybe I’ll make the lava optional,” I said, half a grin curling. “Give the player a choice.”
Dad nodded. “That’s the start of something.”
After breakfast, the kitchen settled into that quiet lull that follows warmth and full bellies. Dad rinsed our bowls in the sink, humming something tuneless under his breath. The faint clink of porcelain and the low hum of the fridge were the only sounds for a while. I sat at the table, fingers curled around the last of my tea, watching the steam ghost up and disappear.
Dad dried his hands on the towel and made his way to the living room. He pressed play on a voice note through his phone—some narrator with a deep, careful voice began reading a short story I didn’t recognize. The words floated out in low tones, blending with the soft ticking of the wall clock and the distant drone of a neighbor’s lawnmower.
I leaned in the doorway for a minute, watching him sit there on the edge of the couch, jacket already on, thermos beside him. His eyes weren’t fully on the phone—he was somewhere else, probably picturing whatever hard-edged world the story was spinning. He always did that: carried books and stories into his day like little anchors.
The story ended just as he stood up and slipped on his shoes.
“Off to the hangar,” he said, adjusting his collar.
I gave him a mock salute. “Don’t let any carburetors go rogue.”
He smiled, slow and crooked, then ruffled my hair on his way past. “Keep Marley out of trouble.”
“Unlikely,” I said, grinning.
He paused in the doorway, hand on the knob, and glanced back once. “See you tonight, builder.”
“Bye, Dad.”
The door clicked shut, and the silence he left behind was soft, not empty.
I turned and whistled. Marley came skittering out from under the kitchen table, ears perked, tail wagging like a wind-up toy. She was already in full wiggle mode, as if she’d been waiting for this moment all morning.
“Let’s go, you little chaos machine.”
I clipped on her leash and we stepped out into the gold-spilled morning. The air was cool but warming, sunlight skipping across the sidewalk. Marley sniffed every crack like it was her first time outside, her tiny paws tapping in that determined Chihuahua rhythm.
As we walked down the street, I thought about the book, and the soup, and the quiet power in the way Dad listened to stories. Somewhere between footsteps, I realized: we were both just following maps—his made of words, mine made of lava and pixels—but maybe they weren’t so different after all.
We wandered down the familiar street, the world still hazy in early light. Then, just as we passed the big oak tree at the corner, Marley stopped dead in her tracks. Her nose twitched, and her ears shot up like radar.
I followed her gaze and saw the source of her sudden interest: a huge, lumbering Rottweiler across the street. The dog was lounging in the sun, looking far too relaxed for Marley’s liking.
Before I could even say anything, Marley let out a sharp, high-pitched bark. “Woof! Woof! Woof!” It was the kind of bark that seemed to demand attention, not just from the Rottweiler, but from the entire neighborhood.
I tugged lightly on her leash, trying to move her along, but she had other plans. She stood her ground, eyes locked on the big dog as she let out another string of barks. "Woof! Woof!"
Finally, the Rottweiler lifted his head, eyes narrowing slightly. With a deep, rumbling growl, he barked back, his voice as low as thunder. “Enough, tiny one,” he said, surprisingly clear for a bark. “You’re making my ears ache. Keep silent, will you?”
Marley froze, her little body trembling from the force of his bark. For a second, she just stared at him, wide-eyed. And then, as if realizing she’d met her match, she let out one final, huffy bark before she turned her back on him, clearly dissatisfied.
I couldn’t help but laugh. “That’s my girl,” I said, patting her on the head. “Stubborn as ever.”
She gave one last glance back at the Rottweiler, then trotted on, as if nothing had happened. But I could tell she was secretly proud—after all, not every dog gets a response from a giant like that.
After the barking showdown, Marley and I made our way back home. She was still walking with a bit of a swagger in her step, like she’d just won the battle with the giant Rottweiler. As we neared the front door, I could feel the weight of the day start to settle in—quiet, but persistent.
We stepped inside, and I took off Marley’s leash, watching as she scampered off to find her favorite sunny spot on the living room rug. I hung my jacket by the door, feeling the familiar warmth of home settle around me.
I glanced over at the kitchen table, where the remnants of breakfast still lingered, and then my eyes fell on the stack of books and papers that had been waiting for me. There it was: my German homework, sitting quietly, reminding me it had been neglected all morning. It was time to face it.
I pulled out the notebook, the crisp smell of the paper mixing with the faint scent of chicken soup still hanging in the air. I grabbed my ball pen, clicked it open, and set it down with a small sigh. Flipping the book open to the first exercise, I stared at the page for a moment, then just started writing, the familiar flow of ink leaving its mark.
Marley, content and unaware of my homework struggles, gave a soft huff from her corner of the room and settled into a nap.
Once I finally finished my homework, I grabbed my backpack and headed for school. The weather was perfect—warm, gentle air that seemed to have been made just for walking. The sun kissed my skin, and for a moment, I couldn’t shake the thought of staying outside, lost in the peace of the day, free from the weight of textbooks and deadlines. I didn’t want to study; I wanted to linger in that soft spring glow, with the breeze carrying the scent of fresh grass and possibilities. But, of course, I had no choice. With a resigned sigh, I zipped up my bag and stepped out into the world that was waiting for me.
The first lesson was German. In the beginner’s class, we reviewed basic animal vocabulary, splitting them into domestic and wild. We also went over food terms and simple cooking ingredients, along with revising fundamental German grammar cases.
My teacher thinks I’m ready for B1+, but honestly, I’m only at A2. I know some German—enough for very simple daily conversations. I can describe basic things around me, though usually with limited detail and a lot of searching for the right words. Sometimes I can even talk about language-related topics, but always in the most basic way.
Honestly, my active vocabulary is far from intermediate—even though I live in Germany, even though I’ve helped absolute beginners, even though I study alongside motivated learners.
I’m comfortable at A2, where things still feel manageable. But my teacher wants me to take the exam soon and jump straight to B1+. It feels too ambitious. In private lessons, we already use B1+ materials, and most of the time they feel way over my head. I follow along just to push myself, but deep down, I know I’m not truly there yet. I deliberately choose slightly harder exercises, because if they're too easy, I lose focus—or worse, fall asleep!
And honestly? I can’t even really talk properly about topics like friendship, let alone tackle formal subjects. Writing or speaking about them feels impossible.
In full-German classes, I understand somewhere between 30 to 60 percent, depending mostly on the slides and the teacher’s gestures. Unsurprisingly, English remains my favorite subject—the only one where I can actually understand everything without trying to piece it together like a jigsaw puzzle with missing pieces.
The second class was German again, though with a different group. The topic was the subjunctive mood—typically tedious grammar, yet somehow, it made perfect sense to me today. Then I recalled a line from Goethe’s Wilhelm Meister that gave me pause:
"Glücklich, wer sich vor der Welt ohne Hass verschließt!"
It ceased to be mere grammar—it felt like a quiet revelation. That was how I wished to live: quietly, without hatred, carving out my own small, peaceful place.
After German, there was PE. I’m terrible at PE, perhaps because I spend long hours typing on my phone or building levels in Doombuilder—which also means staring at a screen for hours. On a brighter note, my handwriting has improved significantly. The calligraphy course I took a month ago is finally showing its effects now. I catch myself forming letters a little slower, a little more carefully, even without thinking.
While I was struggling through jumping jacks and half-hearted running drills, a pack of dogs barked madly outside the gym, making it even harder to concentrate. Their sharp yelps seemed to fill the whole room, bouncing off the walls and pulling my mind away from PE.
The fourth class was Literature, and we read a chapter from The Iron Man by Ted Hughes. I love how the giant robot seems terrifying at first but turns out to be kind. Our teacher asked us to write a short paragraph about what we’d do if we ever met a metal giant. I imagined teaching it to play chess—though I’m not very good at chess either, so we'd probably both be equally puzzled over the rules.
The fifth class was Science, where we learned about the water cycle. We did a little experiment with a plastic bag, water, and sunlight to see evaporation in action. As I watched the tiny drops forming inside the bag, I kept thinking about how the same water had been here since the time of dinosaurs. It made me feel oddly connected to history, like some small part of me belonged to something much, much older. Some classmates giggled when the teacher said "condensation," but I just found it fascinating.
The last class was Maths, and we worked on long division. It’s tricky, but strangely, I find it easier to like than fractions. The teacher drew colourful diagrams on the board, step by step, turning numbers into little colourful staircases. I got stuck on one problem halfway through, staring at it like it had grown extra legs, until my friend Ellie leaned over and whispered a quick hint. Suddenly, it clicked. When the bell finally rang, I was almost disappointed—Maths is slowly growing on me, even though, deep down, I’d still rather be designing Doom levels.
After school, I walked for a while. The weather was wonderful—warm and sunny, with a gentle breeze that made the afternoon feel endless. The streets were dotted with blooming flowers: vivid tulips in fiery reds and yellows lined the sidewalks, their petals wide open to the sun; delicate clusters of cherry blossoms dusted the air with soft pinks and whites; lilacs spilled their sweet perfume from small urban gardens; and bright daffodils bobbed their cheerful yellow heads along the park edges. The whole city felt brushed with a painter’s lively palette, and it made simply walking a quiet kind of happiness.
Later, I logged into my online Russian lesson with Tatyana Nikolayevna. Her video was already on when I joined—papers scattered around her desk, a mug of tea cooling beside her laptop.
"Good afternoon, Tatyana Nikolayevna!" I said.
She smiled warmly through the screen, though I could see the tiredness in her eyes.
"Good afternoon! How was your day?"
"Not bad," I said with a small shrug. "But my schedule is getting crazy. Sometimes it feels like I barely have time to breathe."
She chuckled, taking a quick sip of her tea.
"Believe me, I understand. I’m rushing from one online lesson to the next without much of a break. Sometimes I think I spend more time clicking between meetings than actually teaching."
I grinned.
"My days are just as packed—school, homework, projects... And now I'm trying to prepare for university. I’m thinking about studying languages or literature, but it's a lot to juggle."
Her eyes lit up with encouragement.
"That's a wonderful choice. But yes, it will keep you very busy."
"I know," I said, laughing a little. "Neither of us really has time for extra classes anymore."
We both smiled at that—a small, tired, but genuine understanding between two people living different lives with the same nonstop rhythm. Then we said our goodbyes, promising to catch up again next week.
In the evening, I sat down and watched Power Rangers. Yeah, I’m becoming a fan of them again—there's just something about the colors, the energy, the nostalgia. It felt good to just sink into something simple and bright after a long day.
However, my relaxed viewing was interrupted by a scheduled German class. Duty called, as always.
When I logged in, my German teacher greeted me with her usual cheerful tone.
"How are you feeling today?" she asked.
"A bit tired," I admitted, "but ready."
We dove into grammar almost immediately. Coincidentally, we touched on the same topic we had covered at school earlier—the subjunctive mood. I couldn't help but laugh a little when she introduced it.
"What’s funny?" she asked, smiling.
"I think the subjunctive is haunting me today," I said. "We went over it in school this morning too."
She laughed.
"Well, maybe it’s a sign that you’re ready to master it!"
"Or that it’s trying to conquer me first," I joked.
"You'll win," she said confidently, typing some examples into the chat. "The subjunctive may seem tricky, but once you start feeling it, it becomes like second nature."
We practiced a few more sentences, imagining all kinds of possibilities and polite wishes. Even though my brain felt overloaded, it was oddly satisfying to see something so abstract start to settle into place.
After the lesson, I didn’t even have much energy left; I simply drifted toward bed, letting the day fold itself quietly behind me.
