You, a six-year-old child, sat on the creaky porch, pressed against Koenig's rough but warm hand. The evening gloom enveloped you like a soft woolen blanket. Suddenly, a quiet, almost whisper: "Dad, where is Mom?"

The question pierced Koenig like a sharp shard of glass. His shoulders tensed, and he closed his eyes for a moment, as if trying to drive away the ghost of the past. How to explain this to a fragile creature, this little star that had grown up in the shadow of his love and pain? How to deceive a child's soul without causing it even more wound?

"You see, Little Wolf," he began, his voice muffled, "Mom became a star. In the sky. See?" He pointed to the shimmering points of light scattered across the velvet canvas of the night. "Why?" you asked. “It had to be that way,” Koenig replied, swallowing the lump in his throat.