4 Small Cards

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In 2005, Bayern Munich supported their club legend Mark van Bommel’s original team, Fortuna Sittard, by organizing a charity match set for January 30, 2005. Besides ticket sales, they added sponsorships, auctions, and donations to raise funds. The event and auction combined were expected to bring in between 1.5 to 3 million euros—enough to help Fortuna safely finish the season.

During today’s training, Karl had the fewest mistakes on the team. The coach, in his summary, teased him twice, warning him not to get arrogant but to keep leading by example. Then, privately, he praised Karl warmly and joked whether he’d be sitting in a box for the charity match.

“I read about your father in the paper today, Karl. He’s really the one steering the family bank, isn’t he?” the coach laughed. “But I hope you’ll sit down with the team, not in the stands. If you decide to get a ticket from me, I’ll make sure your seat is right next to everyone else’s.”

Karl smiled and dodged the topic. He wanted to ask when the German Cup squad list would be announced, and he also wanted to tell the coach about his family troubles. But in the end, he said nothing, letting the coach affectionately ruffle his hair as they said goodbye until tomorrow.

Karl stood on the subway, holding the pole by the door and looking down. His golden hair swayed gently with the train’s movement. From Müller’s copy of the Süddeutsche Zeitung, Karl read news about the approaching charity match. Well, “read” was a stretch—Müller babbled bits of sentences like a goldfish blowing bubbles, often losing his place when the train jolted, then catching up as he followed Müller’s narration.

After training today, Karl planned to browse bookstores downtown, so he didn’t take the U2 line. Naturally, Müller didn’t have to detour with him either. Just like last autumn, they took the U1 heading toward the central station together.

It had been a while since they shared a ride. Kroos stood a little ahead on their right, leaning against the carriage wall. His black down jacket hung open, white wired earphones trailing from Bayern’s soft reddish-brown training top over his slightly puffed chest, finally tucking into the inside pocket near his abs, as if helping passersby focus on the main attraction.

As usual, Kroos tilted his head without looking at them, lost in thought. His blue eyes shimmered under the lights, immersed in some unknown song.

Karl noticed two girls to their front-right whispering and giggling as they leaned close to each other, secretly watching Kroos.

Kroos was quite popular with girls… Karl’s impression of him remained stuck in his early youth academy days. On the day Kroos first joined, he had gone to the youth training supervisor for a stamp on his training certificate to get leave from school. The supervisor was watching an Under-15 training match, so Kroos lingered to watch as well.

Back then, Kroos sported a bowl-cut hairstyle and calmly controlled the ball on the pitch. In the chaotic youth academy, where it felt like a gathering of apes, his intelligence and composure shone brilliantly—gifts often more precious than physical ability.

The supervisor had joked, putting an arm around his shoulder, “You two will definitely be teammates in the first team someday. If that happens, don’t forget to come see me, praise me in the papers, and tell Mr. Hoeness and Mr. Rummenigge I’m a prophet.”

A kid kicked the ball way off course. The ball hurtled toward him. He flailed his thin arms and legs, screaming “nein!” The supervisor just stood there, amused. Karl watched the ball’s trajectory, stepped back lightly, jumped slightly, and expertly stopped the ball with his chest. The violent ball suddenly softened, falling gently. Karl spun the ball underfoot and trapped it.

Many on the pitch recognized him immediately. He was undoubtedly a youth idol inside the academy. They cheered, whistle-blowing and clapping for his brilliant control—but apparently not including Kroos, who stood silently looking their way, detached and out of place in the noisy crowd. Karl smiled at the kid who had kicked the ball away and passed it back steadily.

That was the last vivid memory Karl had of Kroos. Boys grow fast during puberty; sometimes Karl felt Kroos looked different from the day he joined at 14—no longer the same face. He chuckled at his own premature “old man” feelings.

When Müller got on the train, he teased Kroos about being tired from training today and warned him not to fall asleep standing.

“Karl, did you finish reading? Did you?” Müller asked as he folded the paper, smiling with a complaint about sore eyes. Tickets for the charity match had already gone on sale. Müller’s whole family was coming, fulfilling his son’s heartfelt goodwill. But Kroos and Karl hadn’t bought tickets yet. Müller asked what was going on with them.

“Tony’s excused; he has exams and his family lives too far to come to Munich. Karl, what’s up? Don’t want to watch the match? That’s not like you.” Müller grabbed the railing, grinning and making a peace sign, feeling the centrifugal force at the next sharp turn as if about to fly off, tilting his head to look. At that moment, his tousled brown hair spread out, making him look like a happy little colt. “Got plans that day, too?”

Caught off guard, Karl, still holding the pole, was thrown backward, landing next to Kroos, his back pressing against the carriage wall to steady himself. Their bodies bumped slightly. Karl felt his elbow scrape something and glanced sideways—oh no, Kroos stared at him expressionlessly, lips pursed, and the left earphone wire had slipped, swinging freely in the air like a carefree tune on a swing.

The right earphone also looked perilously loose.

Why did this kind of thing happen every day? Karl’s first thought was embarrassment. Unlike movie heroes who bump into people, twist ankles, or spill coffee, Karl had excellent coordination and rarely fumbled. Usually, others bumped into him and he helped them up.

More troublesome was that Kroos seemed to dislike being touched and had a strong personal boundary. When Karl instinctively reached to fix the earphone, he hesitated.

Was Kroos so averse to others touching his earphones? According to Karl’s understanding, that made perfect sense.

But if so, doing nothing would seem rude—just glaring back as if justified in his mistake.

“Sorry,” Karl apologized sincerely but dryly as he stepped back.

Kroos didn’t even grunt; he wrapped the earphone wire with his fingers, lowered his head, and put it back on himself.

Müller had no power to intervene in the strange awkwardness between Kroos and Karl. They pretended nothing was odd. Fortunately, no major conflicts arose. So the little incident passed quietly within a couple of minutes.

Karl wanted to pretend Müller’s question had never come up, but he knew Müller wasn’t stupid. If Karl dodged the topic, Müller would only worry more.

Though awkward and shameful, Karl didn’t want to lie just to protect his pride.

He could sugarcoat things, but that would harm his inner dignity, something equally profound.

And if discovered, the lie would be even harder to bear.

So he looked Müller straight in the eye and, amid the creaking train sounds and the white noise of people’s voices during rush hour, spoke honestly:

“I want to go, but I don’t have the money, so I didn’t buy a ticket. Things are tight at home.”

Karl was somewhat relieved Kroos kept his earphones on. Although he dared say it, he knew it wasn’t necessary to share this with acquaintances. Kind-hearted people would feel awkward, unsure how to help. Mean-spirited ones would mock behind his back and spread rumors.

Müller was stunned. Two seconds later, he suddenly reached out and hugged Karl without warning.

“Ah, sorry! I didn’t know! I’m such a blabbermouth...”

Karl hadn’t expected this reaction. In his mind, the worst results played out; the best was Müller smiling and giving a thumbs-up, saying he understood no pocket money—a lighthearted dismissal.

Instead, he received a warm embrace and a heart beating passionately.

Speaking openly made him feel grounded and taller, and the response was equally sincere.

Karl suddenly felt incredibly relieved—

“It’s normal to ask, so don’t apologize. It’s not that bad. Look, I’m going to the bookstore, buying picture books for my sister.” He let go of the hug, smiling. “Missing the match isn’t the end of the world. But I feel bad for the club and didn’t get a chance to tell the coach—I stood outside his door today but felt embarrassed and walked away.”

They didn’t really crave the match itself. Youth players often had chances to stand on the sidelines and watch.

“The tickets will sell out. I read the news today—some fat cats are buying a hundred tickets each to bring their whole company. I shouldn’t curse them in my heart. I’ll pray eighty more fat cats come and buy the most expensive seats all for themselves...”

Müller quickly flipped the newspaper to find similar stories.

For some reason, Karl felt especially happy—so much so that a rare mischievous impulse bubbled up. He pinched Müller’s ear, telling him to quit worrying; it really didn’t matter.

“Ah! I was just worried you’d be sad!” Müller fidgeted like a restless pup, several times almost blurting out “I’ll buy you a ticket!” before biting his tongue hard.

Maybe because Karl, who never shared any troubles, suddenly confided this sincere youth dilemma, Müller empathized deeply and felt intense excitement and heartfelt joy. He wanted to jump on Karl, hug him, and say, “I’ll buy it for you, no need to pay me back!” but feared spoiling the perfect moment, so he restrained himself.

They hugged, pinched ears, and fidgeted, a flurry of antics that caught the two girls watching Kroos, who switched their attention to Müller.

Müller had changed out of his training gear. Kroos had his jacket covering most of his jersey, making it look like a normal Bayern shirt, but Müller still wore his in full. Any knowledgeable fan squinting might get excited to spot a genuine U19 youth academy player.

Don’t be fooled by their daily contract worries and eventual disappointments—very few make it to the first team, and fewer still stay and shine. Surviving Bayern’s brutal youth system meant you were already among the best of your age group.

Karl, who had started playing for the reserve team in the 2. Bundesliga, had some exposure. Fans usually didn’t recognize him immediately, and even if they did, didn’t bother asking for autographs or photos—just curious glances. Wearing earphones, Karl rarely engaged with fans. Müller, however, was loud and outgoing, and risked being mistaken for the friendly type people wanted to chat with, which annoyed him.

Karl immediately placed his hand on Müller’s head, looking serious.

“Shh.”

Müller froze, eyes wide and nervous.

“What’s wrong?”

Karl looked outside. Grateful for the train’s speed, he smiled.

“You’re at your stop, you silly bear! Time to get off.”

As the doors slowly closed, Müller jumped outside, shouting goodbye. Karl waved back. Müller yelled, “Where’s Tony’s hand? Is it frozen? Tony! Tony! Tony, I’m leaving! See you tomorrow!” Passengers boarding and alighting turned back curiously, wondering where Tony’s missing hand was.

Karl caught a faint blush and a hint of embarrassment on Kroos’s otherwise expressionless face, as if Kroos was trying to convince himself he wasn’t Tony.

He struggled not to laugh. But with the crowd flowing in, they had to stand closer. Karl couldn’t rudely turn his back. Facing Kroos’s golden hair so near, he said nothing; he looked sideways and down at the door handle, the small awkwardness swelling again.

Karl vowed no more accidents today, almost nailing himself to the floor to avoid knocking into Kroos again. He didn’t know where Kroos got off—like Müller said, no one knew where Kroos lived or his home phone.

He felt “Which stop do you get off at?” wouldn’t be a question Kroos liked, so he didn’t ask, silently enduring the occasional bump from behind.

But when they got to the destination and both stood up, exchanging looks, that was different.

Ah, so Kroos lived nearby.

“Want to go to the bookstore together?” Karl asked politely, expecting a shake of the head and a goodbye. Kroos was silent but nodded. They parted ways. Kroos nodded again… huh?

Huh???

Even inside the warm bookstore, with his hat and scarf off and soft droplets on his eyelashes, Karl still felt unreal. He thought Kroos had come to buy books, too, but Kroos just stood with him in the picture book section, half-heartedly picking up books and putting them down.

It was strange for two teenagers to be here, surrounded by small children on tiptoes or hurried parents. Unless you had younger siblings, reading “Little Rabbit Karl” or “Flying Carrot” at this age was a bit silly.

Karl hoped Kroos didn’t mind.

“Do you have siblings, Tony?”

Kroos nodded.

“No wonder,” Karl sighed, relieved.

Inspired by Karl buying books for his sister, Kroos planned to buy one for his little brother as a gift. Nice—though cold, he was a good brother. Karl felt empathy and asked, “How old is he?”

Karl pictured Kroos at home, smiling as a golden-haired boy, maybe the same age, ran up and yelled, “Brother, you’re home!” But Kroos calmly replied, “Fifteen. One year younger than me.”

Karl: ……

Suddenly at a loss for words.

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His sudden silence made Kroos glance up sharply, then lower his head again, frowning and pursing his lips. Like when Kroos shrugged off Karl’s hand, telling him not to touch, probably thinking the question was awkward, boring, and an invasion of privacy.

Karl no longer felt uneasy today, only deeply sad. He was certain he would always be annoying to Kroos. The more he talked, the more mistakes he made; better to stay quiet. He bent down to study the picture books, only to be surprised and saddened that the “Little Rabbit Karl” series had new editions every year, while Lyra still had his decade-old books.

No wonder she occasionally asked if there were new stories; everyone said yes, but she never knew.

Karl felt guilty as a bad brother for not noticing sooner. But he was tight on time and money. The picture books cost 16 euros each; he thought they’d be over 20. He wished he had brought more money. Now he was two euros short of buying two books, an awkward situation caused by lack of funds. Borrowing from Kroos was a definite no-no.

He carefully selected four or five books, finally choosing one themed on drawing, and noted the titles of the others to buy one each month.

Not knowing how to pick, Kroos packed away the ones Karl didn’t choose. Karl refused to think if it was Kroos or his 15-year-old brother who would read them. After all, many adults loved picture books, even if teenagers often didn’t. It shouldn’t be too strange.

More than that, Karl sighed that even at sixteen, Kroos could buy dozens of euros worth of picture books for his older brother, while his own adorable Lyra, at seven or eight—the prime age for picture books—still only had the old ones to flip through. The contract issue weighed heavily on Karl’s mind again.

Though it was only six o’clock, the bookstore hurriedly closed after they left. The clerk complained they should have cleared out by 5:40 but spared them. The sky was dark and snow had started falling—typical winter, snowflakes were never surprising.

Outside, cold wind rushed in. Karl shivered, his breath forming white mist under the pale blue street lamps. Though the bookstore was large, it hadn’t moved from its old location, so it wasn’t in a major shopping district. The nearest two subway stations formed an isosceles triangle, neither close.

Karl calculated he’d have to ride a few stops back to the central station, transfer lines, and wait for the train going the other way. Today’s commute would take forty extra minutes, and he’d get home over an hour late.

He forgot to leave a note this morning in his rush. He worried his mother might be anxious and needed to hurry.

They walked briskly out of the neighborhood, along the sidewalk under the road toward the subway. Kroos, behind him, muttered something. Karl guessed he was switching routes. As Karl turned to say goodbye, Kroos accidentally flicked his hat while holding heavy books, lost balance, slipped, and fell to the roadside with a painful “ah!”

Karl’s mind went blank: “Don’t move your leg or foot! Don’t!”

In emergencies, you act like this. Maybe if they waited ten more minutes, someone would pass by to help call for assistance. But right now, there was no one. Cars roared above but were unreachable. Karl crouched, cradling Kroos, calming him, and checking his limbs. Kroos wouldn’t let him touch his leg; touching his head was easier. He nearly shouted in frustration.

Feeling sorry for Kroos, so young and alone, struck by such bad luck that could end his season, Karl understood his stress and apologized repeatedly, soothing him.

Though Kroos kept saying his ankle hurt less and maybe it was just bruised and he could try walking, Karl knew people’s injury perceptions were often wrong. Normal folks might endure, but athletes risking worsening injuries was too dangerous. Hearing Kroos’s pained cries, Karl worried the fall hurt his foot. After watching Kroos move his thigh and calf and confirming no muscle strain, Karl turned around and spread his arms.

“Get on my back, be careful not to touch your foot.”

Without looking, Karl knew the answer—silent refusal.

He kept his arms open, patiently persuading:

“I know you hate me, but the nearest hospital is just ten minutes away. I’ll carry you, it’ll be quick. Please hang on.”

“You’re lying,” Kroos grumbled angrily.

Karl felt wronged. “I’m not lying; there really is a hospital…”

In their tug-of-war, Kroos eventually gave in, reluctantly agreeing to be carried. Yet on Karl’s back, he was so stiff it felt like carrying a stone in clothes.

Kroos was tall and heavy. With one hand holding their books, he was a hefty load. Thank goodness he wasn’t older; if he grew two more years, Karl doubted he could carry him for ten minutes. Still, Karl sighed with relief and headed toward the hospital. Even if the ER was closed, the area would have more people to help if needed, and he could call a cab or emergency services. If possible, he’d ask for permission to call his family afterward and explain.

He couldn’t put his hands in his pockets now, gripping Kroos tightly. The cold wind seeped through sleeves, fingers quickly losing feeling, then swelling hotly from poor circulation, snapping Karl back from his thoughts. He worried if he was squeezing Kroos too tightly.

Though exhausted, Karl tried to keep his arms raised to keep Kroos’s toes off the ground.

“Sorry,” he said miserably. “I hit my head yesterday, and now this… I have to apologize to your family properly…”

“...No one knows,” Kroos said.

“Huh?”

“No one will know because my family isn’t here. Why would I tell them?” Kroos said gloomily. “I’m not local. Everyone calls me the East German kid, haven’t you heard?”

Karl knew Kroos was “from East Germany,” but didn’t focus much on others’ origins and often forgot. He didn’t know Kroos’s parents hadn’t come to care for him.

“What about the host family—”

“Yeah,” Kroos said after a pause. “It’s legit, don’t ask.”

The Sabener Street dorms provided some youth accommodation for kids too far from home, but were inconvenient. No one truly far away stayed at the club. Usually, they chose host families or at least one parent came as a guardian. Karl hadn’t expected Kroos, who seemed from a well-off middle-class family, to have lived as a foster kid since 14. He was stunned.

The cold wind whipped around them. Exhausted and in pain, Kroos softened slowly, eventually resting his head gently on Karl’s shoulder without touching his skin.

Snowflakes fell softly on their heads.

Despite numb and trembling arms and worry, Karl took pride in being a reliable big brother figure at this moment, feeling grateful and comforted.

They finally reached the hospital, where luck was on their side: the ER was open. The nurse, hearing Karl say they were players, quickly brought a wheelchair.

The doctor was surprised to see a teenager so disheveled in a wheelchair, even more serious hearing he was from Bayern’s youth academy. The doctor carefully examined him.

Karl wanted to warn the doctor not to press too hard—Kroos hated that—but seeing Kroos show no reaction, he realized Kroos just disliked Karl, but not others, so he swallowed the words.

The doctor frowned, conservatively ordered an MRI for the whole body, explaining:

“What if his brain got hurt?”

Kroos hesitated.

Karl decisively said, “Do it!”

The results took at least half an hour. Karl got hot water for Kroos to drink, bought protein bars from a vending machine, and borrowed a phone from the nurse’s station.

Just dialing made his heart race and fingers tremble. He’d be over two hours late getting home, hadn’t notified anyone, and knew his mother would be worried and angry. She might not believe “I took a friend to the hospital,” suspecting he hung out with bad company.

Kroos’s parents weren’t nearby to attest.

The call rang. No answer.

Karl’s anxiety soared—what if his mother went out looking, or called the police? The cops would definitely contact the youth academy to check his whereabouts. Tickets or no tickets didn’t matter; tomorrow he’d be infamous, and the coach furious. The phone rang again—then connected.

“Hello, this is Erika. It’s me. Sorry, I just woke up and missed your call. Lucky I got woken. You changed your number again?”

Karl was stunned hearing her gentle, bright voice after a long time.

“Mom, it’s me... Sorry. I went to buy books for Lyra. A friend had an accident, so I took him to the hospital. I’ll be late getting home.”

There was silence, then a scream:

“Karl? You? It’s almost seven! What are you doing out? Why aren’t you home yet?”

“I was buying books for Lyra, and a friend had an accident, so I…”

“Hospital? You’re at the hospital? Are you broken? You’re dangerous alone! And you have exams soon! How do you have time to wander? Did you fight and get into the hospital?”

“Mom, don’t panic. Don’t panic.” Feeling the nurse’s gaze, Karl covered the receiver to block her screams in the quiet room. “I’m fine. It’s my friend, maybe a sprained ankle. I’m just with him. I’ll come back soon.”

“What friend? What’s his name? I know all your friends—Reith or Schneider?”

“Not a school friend, Mom. He’s from the youth academy, so you don’t know him. A lower level, just 16. His parents aren’t here. I can’t leave him alone.”

“You call everyone in the academy friends? You don’t even bother to make up a name? Learn to lie already?”

Erika was furious:

“Karl, what’s wrong lately? Tell me everything; don’t hide from me. You finished at five, took him to the hospital, why call me so late? Where are you? Are you dating? Is this his home phone? Give me the phone to talk to his parents.”

“No, no. I bought books first, then he fell, so it’s late.” Karl was nervous, hands shaking. “I’m not lying…”

“Give me the phone,” the nurse snapped, impatient. “Enough already.”

“This is Munich Schwabing Hospital. I’m the duty nurse. Madam, you can’t keep our phone tied up in case of emergencies. If nothing else, I’m hanging up.”

“Believe what you want. Check government records yourself. We’re a legit hospital.”

“It’s after seven at night. What hospital does abortions then? Your son didn’t bring any girls; he’s with a boy. Am I a pedophile? Call the police. They can talk to normal people. Three cameras here; this phone records. If you make a false report, I’ll sue you for defamation!”

The nurse slammed down the handset. Karl stared blankly.

“I blocked your home number so she won’t call again. You can’t use it anymore. Go home and talk to her yourself.” She rolled her eyes at Karl. “What are you looking at? Go back to your friend.”

“Thank you,” Karl said, almost tearing up.

“You’re dumb and still thank me.” She shook her head. Karl apologized profusely and left. As the door closed, she said, “I’m just fulfilling legal duties. If she hits you at home, call the police.”

His mother never hit him. She wasn’t violent, just overly anxious and sensitive. Life was hard for her, being a good mom was tough. If something happened to him, she’d be heartbroken. It wasn’t her fault.

He should have left a note this morning—it would have saved all this.

Or called as soon as they got to the hospital.

But how to stop his mother from being angry now? Lyra would hear her yelling and might get scared.

Karl washed his face for a long time, calming down before returning to the doctor and Kroos. He’d wasted too much time; the MRI results were ready. Kroos glanced at him, then lowered his eyes, frowning. The doctor noticed and said, “Don’t wash your face too long in winter; your eyes are red.”

Karl nodded and smiled, “I accidentally splashed some water. How’s it looking?”

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The doctor fell silent, carefully studying the images, then sighed:

“It’s a sprain.”

Karl’s heart leapt. “What sprain? Which foot?”

Even Kroos, who’d claimed no foot pain, was dumbfounded, sitting pale and wide-eyed, unable to speak at the shock.

“What foot? His legs and feet are perfectly fine! The only injury is his right hand—a joint sprain with minor soft tissue damage. Probably from bracing the fall. Good heavens, nothing felt wrong when examining him. You kids are always confused about pain. You were carrying so many heavy books all along; no wonder you’re sore. I even did a full MRI; the radiation is more dangerous than this sprain.”

The doctor shook his head, laughing at the fuss. He nudged Kroos’s wheelchair, telling him to get up and walk. Karl hadn’t expected this turn and cradled Kroos’s right elbow, regretting, “Really, why did you carry all those books?”

“…I couldn’t just throw them away!”

The false alarm left them sweating but relieved—a different kind of happiness. Karl watched the doctor wrap a brace and apply pain spray, advising to avoid use for a couple of days, and saying it’d heal in five days to two weeks.

The doctor joked, “If you become stars, Bayern must thank me and partner with our hospital! Make me a sports medicine expert!”

“Alright, now sign the contract,” Karl joked along.

The doctor leaned back, laughing. Karl finally saw his name tag: Dr. Schmidt.

“Schmidt” was a common surname. Karl silently memorized the face.

Outside, the cold was sharper. Karl knew the way to the subway; Kroos knew the way home. They walked together quietly.

Suddenly Karl laughed. Kroos, embarrassed, kicked a thin layer of fresh snow toward him but stopped when he met Karl’s bright, happy eyes under the streetlamp.

Stepping onto the snowy station platform warmed by heaters, Kroos stopped to watch Karl get on. Then, after two seconds of silence, Kroos stood still, watching Karl.

“...Aren’t you going home this way?”

“...Shouldn’t I see you home first?”

The awkward silence stretched. Karl worried about Kroos’s injured hand and the lack of care if he went home alone. He hurriedly found a reason:

“I should explain to your host parents. It’s late; they’ll worry…”

“I live alone,” Kroos cut him off, frustrated and depressed, speaking the longest he had all day:

“No parents. No mom, no dad. No real host family—just a name on paper. I live by myself. Stop worrying someone will cause you trouble. It’s just a small injury; no one cares. I don’t care. You don’t care. You’re only worried about something big you’d have to be responsible for. There isn’t any. So just end it. Can you go home now? Can I leave?”

Kroos stood tensely, staring at Karl, expecting him to get angry or pretend to sigh and tell him to rest, then walk away without looking back.

But Karl just looked back silently, Kroos’s beautiful blue eyes fixed on him, snow crowning his head like a glowing halo.

“...Then I’ll make dinner for you—and for myself, okay? I’m hungry. Eating at home would be too late. Let me stay.”

Once loud and quarrelsome, now they quietly sniffled and bought groceries together, debating whether to eat green peppers before deciding no. Only teenagers could share such moments.

Kroos’s apartment was decent, small but new, secure, rented by his parents’ friends who visited occasionally and handled documents. This was the “host family” he’d mentioned.

Before entering, Kroos insisted Karl stay outside. After a few pounding sounds inside, he calmly opened the door again. Karl guessed Kroos wasn’t the type to toss smelly socks on the floor—maybe he was putting away things he didn’t want seen, like photos.

The cozy studio was warm, furnished in creamy white with fluffy carpets. Once inside and the door shut, the world felt quiet and pleasant. Karl wiped his shoes, hung his coat, scarf, and hat, settled Kroos on the sofa, telling him not to move, then started dinner.

“Wait,” Kroos said.

He brought a warm towel from the bathroom’s drying rack and used his good left hand to dry Karl’s hair.

“All done.”

They’d been hungry yesterday and today again—a double hunger. Luckily, they could cook now and eat soon. Karl happily arranged everything on the clean cream-colored stove. Kroos peeked, amazed to see three pots simmering and Karl beating egg whites while preheating the oven.

“Can we eat all this?”

“Can’t we?”

They could. After all the chaos, they were hungrier than expected. Karl made tomato pasta, shrimp salad, fried many sausages, saved some for Kroos tomorrow, and they finished the rest. The calories were probably over the limit, then Karl brought out a chiffon cake with cream and strawberries on top—definitely excessive. Kroos wondered if Karl usually indulged like this, since he was known as a model of discipline.

But he heard Karl quietly pat the cake, murmuring why it cracked.

He didn’t care about eating too much anymore. He wanted to eat.

Yet Karl only served the whole decorated, rich, fragrant cake to Kroos, then went to clean up.

“Wait, didn’t you want to eat it?”

“No, it’s just for you.” Karl was puzzled. “You’re injured.”

Sick, hurt—so eating forbidden sweets as comfort. Karl thought everyone did that. He felt like he was born to annoy Kroos, always stepping on mines.

“Ah, you don’t like sweets?!”

“I don’t.”

Kroos lowered his head, angry and sad, clumsily cutting half the cake with a fork.

“You’re lying. You said I hated you and don’t like sweets. All lies.”

“Don’t speak for me; I have my own mouth.”

He was so embarrassed he pushed the half cake to the other side.

After a while, the sound of a chair pulling came. Kroos looked down and softly said:

“Don’t say sorry anymore. I hate you saying sorry to me.”

His slippers nudged Karl’s, soft like the cake in his mouth and Karl’s voice.

“Okay.”

“What else do you hate about me?”

Kroos stuffed a big bite of cake in his mouth.

“Not telling you.”

When Karl got home, he told himself to stay positive and explain well to his mother. It’d be fine. He’d kneel by her bed or sofa, hug and comfort her, say it was normal she was angry. It was his fault. Next time wouldn’t happen. She’d cry and hug him, say sorry, “Karli, sorry. I was just too upset. I shouldn’t have treated you that way. Sorry…” He’d say it’s okay, “I love you, Mom.” Then they’d reconcile. She’d look at him gently like before.

But the reality was no storm, no tears, no heartbreak. Only silence. The house was dark. His mother’s door was closed. Only Lyra’s room had a small light.

He turned on the hallway light and saw a hastily written note on top:

“I can’t control you. I’m going to sleep. Don’t bother me.”

He turned off the light, quietly tidied himself, then hugged the new picture books and gently knocked on Lyra’s door. Unlike usual, “Come in!” came with sobs. Karl was scared and went in. Lyra lay on her bed, silently crying, then rushed into his arms.

“What’s wrong, Lyra? Did I come home late? Look, I just bought you new books…”

“I don’t want books. I don’t want those things. I want my brother and Mom.” Lyra whispered, voice weak from crying too long. “Don’t abandon me.”

“Lyra, no one is abandoning you.” Karl was shocked. “You can want those gifts. I want to give them to you.”

He sensed their mother had said something to Lyra but felt like blood was flowing backward—couldn’t believe it. Lyra was always their mother’s favorite, especially after getting sick. The burden and conflict fell on Karl and Lyra, about to be adults. Why would Mom say such things to Lyra? But Lyra’s words shattered his illusions:

“Mom’s very unhappy… She told me not to accept your picture books, not to stay out late… But Lyra didn’t want that. I didn’t. Brother, you have to tell Mom I didn’t…”

“You didn’t, Lyra. You didn’t.” Karl hugged her. “Mom misunderstood you, right? Our Lyra feels wronged.”

“Yes.” Lyra’s eyes filled with tears as she nestled in his arms.

“Mom will understand, really. She’s just upset. It’s my fault, not Lyra’s. Don’t be sad.”

Karl opened the picture book and told her new stories. Children’s happiness was simple; Lyra soon stopped crying. Not wanting to disturb Mom, they quietly laughed together. Karl spread out drawing supplies, and Lyra copied the pictures Karl drew.

I need money, Karl thought once.

With money, he’d buy a two-story house, like their old home. Mom would live downstairs, they’d live upstairs, hiring a driver, nanny, cook, gardener, caregiver—just like before.

Lyra deserved that life.

The next day, Karl was a bit late to training—there was a quiz at school that counted toward grades; he couldn’t skip it. When he hurried into the locker room, the coach was already speaking and nodded seriously at Karl. Karl quickly bowed and slipped to his spot. Hearing the coach’s words, his heart leapt—

The coach was about to announce the German Cup squad list.

Then his heart sank again.

The first name called was his.

“Karl, Lorin…”

Teammates smiled and tapped knees. Karl smiled back, sliding his bag under his seat. Then he froze.

Inside was a charity match ticket and a thick package.

The list was finished. The coach said he’d get a cup of tea and come back. Players whispered. Karl, unnoticed, opened the package and found the four “Little Rabbit Karl” books he’d wanted but couldn’t afford yesterday.

Underneath was another charity match ticket and a torn piece of white paper.

Written on it was:

“I hate that you always pretend not to get tired, scared, or sad.”

“I hate that you pretend to be much older than me.”