The stove's metal casing still clicked faintly, the last of the heat from the night before seeping out through the cracks between the red bricks, warming the room and leaving the air a little dry. The edges of the gray-green carpet had curled upward along the walls, and the corner near the window had faded from years of sun. Two empty glass vases leaned against one another on the sill. Outside, the sky was gray, like undisturbed milk, or any milk you could get now.

Hinderich was squatting in front of the cabinet, sorting through empty cans, a little shoe polish still clinging beneath his fingernails. He had gotten up earlier than usual that morning, while Siegismund had woken at precisely five, like a clock whose battery had just been changed. They had been like this for years: one woke early and didn't remember the day before, the other stayed up late and remembered too many days. Hinderich reached into the bottom drawer, took out one of the medicine bottles and counted the pills before returning it to its proper place. The names of the medicines were getting longer, the effects shorter. He said nothing, only coughed once, then shut the cabinet door.

Behind him came the faint rubbing of paper. Hinderich turned and saw Siegismund sitting in the chair by the window, leaning slightly forward as if listening to something outside, though his attention seemed to be fixed somewhere much closer. He was folding something. A white napkin, pulled from the kitchen cupboard, had already been folded several times between his hands; he pinched it into a thin ridge, pressed one corner inward, then turned it over and began again. Hinderich stood and moved closer, trying to see what he was making.

Siegismund didn't look up. His nails were neatly trimmed but slightly yellow, and the skin across his knuckles had thinned enough that every joint stood out beneath it. He worked slowly, pressing each crease so deeply that his fingertips turned white with the pressure.

“Finger weg von der Tinte, Luv... das ist ja alles verschmiert. Komm her.”

Hinderich stopped where he was. He recognized Siegismund's voice, but not the way he was using it. The authority that usually sat somewhere behind his words had disappeared, leaving something quieter in its place, almost absent-mindedly gentle. Hinderich had heard that voice only rarely, a long time ago, when Luverwich was still alive, sometimes through a half-open door when neither of them knew he was listening.

He said nothing. Siegismund smoothed the final crease with his thumb, lifted the napkin between both hands and examined it with narrowed eyes. After a moment, he gave a small nod of satisfaction. It wasn't a tactical map, nor some document folded for storage. It was a pigeon: a little pigeon made from a paper napkin, its wings not quite wings and its tail already beginning to droop because the paper was too soft to hold the shape properly. It looked as though one careless touch might flatten it completely, but Siegismund regarded it as if it could already fly.

“Luvchen,” he said suddenly, looking up. “Komm mal her.”

Hinderich glanced instinctively toward the curtains, as though someone might actually emerge from behind them or enter from the next room. No one did. The heater gave a low rumble somewhere inside its casing, and a thin draft slipped through the window frame, carrying the smell of mildew and the damp trace of the previous night's rain. When Hinderich looked back, Siegismund's cloudy eyes were fixed directly on him, but there was no him in them. They held someone else.

“Luv,” he repeated, more gently, with a hint of a smile, the kind of voice a father uses to soothe a child, the kind that says, “I know you're pouting,”

“Ich hab was für dich.”

Hinderich stood there, motionless. A sliver of wind slipped in through the window frame, carrying the smell of mildew and the lingering scent of the previous night's rain. His throat moved, but no sound came out.

Siegismund held out his hand; the paper dove lay in his palm, surrounded by wrinkles, like a clean corner of cloth dug from memory. He gestured for Hinderich to take it.

“Hier. Die Taube. Die bleibt immer bei dir.”

Hinderich walked over and held out his hand. The paper dove landed in his palm so lightly it felt like he hadn't touched it. He didn't look at the old man, nor at his own hand. He stood there, his fingertips slowly gathering the dove's tail feathers, as if afraid it would scatter, or as if pinching it could prevent it from flying away.

Siegismund was still speaking.

“Und spiel nicht zu wild mit dem Jungen draußen, ja?” Siegismund continued. “Pass auf die Treppe. Nicht wie letztes Mal.”

Hinderich still didn't speak.

He just stood there, head down, staring at the paper dove.

His tone carried an almost indulgent discipline, the kind of gentle reproach used only with young children, so tender it was almost unreal. Hinderich listened, feeling a weight pressing on his chest. He knew Siegismund wasn't speaking to him. He wasn't that child, not that girl, not the figure being led by the hand, running past in the corridor and stumbling. But he still nodded, as if moving with the current, without truly making a decision.

His hand unconsciously tightened, bending the tip of the paper dove's tail at a tiny angle. He stared at the bend, his gaze growing heavy. He suddenly remembered Luverwich's hand. In the training camp's logistics shed that year, the light bulbs flickered like breathing. She picked up his report with her slender hand, her knuckles slightly red, and said, "Don't be afraid, I'll explain it to them for you." She held the paper too straight, the edge cutting her thumb. As a bead of blood appeared, she was still smiling, as if she felt no pain. He often forgot this memory, or pretended to forget it, but at this moment, like the crease of a paper dove, it was pressed deeply back into his palm.

Siegismund seemed finally a little tired. He leaned back, his breathing as light as the wind through a windowpane. The slight upturn of his lips, the same one he had when speaking to his "daughter," remained. After a moment, Siegismund's eyelids slowly drooped. His head tilted slightly against the back of the chair, his breathing became even, and he seemed to have returned to an old autumn afternoon nap, detached from the boundaries of reality. His hand was still slightly raised, as if he had just let go of something heavy, or perhaps some responsibility, finally relaxing in his aging mind.

Hinderich stood quietly, listening to the old man's breathing gradually settle. He dared not move too quickly, nor did he want to. He gently held the paper dove in his other hand. He didn't know how long he had stood there, only that the light had shifted slightly from the window, illuminating the unfaded areas of the carpet. Only then did he turn slightly to the other side of the room.

He stopped at the doorway. The air suddenly became very quiet, not because there was no sound, but because all sound had receded into the distance. He felt he should say something, but the pressure in his chest prevented him from speaking. He turned his head to look at the old man in the chair, the man who had once carried orders and the pride of a young officer, now embracing only empty memories, gentle as he was himself.

In that instant, he felt something loosen in his throat. He turned his head and said in a voice so soft it was almost inaudible:

"...Ich bin nicht sie."

Hinderich didn't know whether he wanted him to hear or not. He simply stood by the door, the paper dove in his hand softening slightly from his body heat, the creases no longer so sharp.

It was dusk outside, the air carrying the bitter smell of freshly cut grass. The flagstone path was damp quickly; the rain from last night still clung to the cracks in the bricks, reflecting the pale yellow light of the sky. He hadn't brought a coat, and still clutched the paper dove in his hand, half-forgotten to let go, half-feeling the dove should go somewhere else, yet unable to find its home.

The yard was empty. A towel hung motionless on the balcony of the neighboring building. The wind came and went suddenly. Hinderich walked slowly along the flagstone path toward the flowerbeds, as if he had forgotten the way. He knew this was the route he took every day during his walks. He often walked it with Siegismund, but today he was alone. He found the wooden chair under the withered tree, sat down, and the chair creaked slightly, as if no one had sat on it for a long time.

He gently placed the paper dove on his lap. It no longer resembled a dove; it was more like a misfolded document, an unfilled form, an undelivered letter. A gust of wind came from the side, slightly lifting it up; he reached out and pressed it down, as if apologizing for it.

Insects crawled on the grass. He watched them move in a straight line, around the pebbles, then stop. Then he looked up, his gaze passing over the old iron fence of the flowerbed, towards the end of the street. No one was there. Occasionally, he could hear someone changing a radio channel inside a house, fragments of two different kinds of music overlapping in the air, then disappearing.

He looked down again.

Nothing was there.

The paper dove had slipped away sometime during the gust of wind, or perhaps he had unconsciously let go. He looked around at the ground, but couldn't see it.

The paper was too light, the wind too gentle; it had probably already flown away.

But who was waiting for it?

Who would recognize a dove that hadn't been mailed, hadn't been signed, and had no destination?

He didn't get up to look for it. He simply pulled his hand back, placed it on his lap, his fingers slightly curled, well, the remaining fingers at least, as if holding something. His posture remained unchanged, only the object was gone. His eyes were still fixed on that small patch of empty grass, as if waiting for it to land again, or imagining it flying away from there.

The wind rose again, and the sky grew even grayer. The insects remained still. He sat there, as if waiting for something that would never happen.

The pigeon did not return.