Chapter 31: The Lecture on Fate, II
Tiergarten took longer to reach than I had anticipated.
The tram carried me eastward, through the gray skeleton of Berlin, past iron fences and soot-stained windows, through districts I didn't know by name but could recognize by silence. The buildings changed shape—narrower, taller, more private. The air thinned. The fog rolled heavier here.
I stepped off at the end of the line, boots crunching against frozen gravel. The street signs were unfamiliar. I walked. Not far, but long enough to question it. My breath coiled in front of me. The brass nameplate wasn't hard to find. It gleamed against a wall of ivy, clean and cold.
Dr. Helene Eberhardt — Consultations by Appointment.
I stood outside her door for a full minute before knocking. Long enough to imagine what the inside would look like. How she would sound. What I would say.
The door opened before I knocked again.
A young woman, not Eberhardt, greeted me and ushered me inside. No introductions. Just a nod and a quiet coat rack gesture. The waiting room was narrow and lined with books—German titles, French theory, a few English volumes on mind and memory.
A clock ticked quietly on the wall. No second hand.
I sat. Waited.
When the inner door opened, I didn't notice at first. Dr. Eberhardt stood there in gray—sharp lines, dark gloves, pale eyes.
"Matthias Reiter?" she said, not as a question.