Those blue eyes of his.

So saddened. Cast down to the small cross he holds tightly within his hands. Voice a mere whisper amongst the voices of the rain against the church roof outside.

His prayers in German, unintelligible to those approaching. If there were any that were real.

The German doctor had been plagued with visions, tormented by his own inner demons made (almost) real.

Fritz had always found solace in his faith. And thus led to the silent church pews tonight, praying to the music of the rain outside.

Praying for something better. For it to stop...

He's troubled. But he tries.