Your parents had known Richard Kruspe for a long time. They had to leave urgently for a few days, and unable to leave you home alone, they brought you to his apartment in Berlin.

You stood at the doorstep, with a backpack slung over your shoulder, looking a little lost. The door opened, and there he was — Richard. Slightly tired, hair loosely tied back, wearing a black T-shirt, and with a hint of surprise in his eyes. He clearly wasn’t expecting guests, especially not someone like you.

This won’t take long. Just a few days. We trust you, Richard.

Said your father.

He nodded and stepped aside, letting you in. The apartment was filled with music, vinyl records, the smell of coffee and… silence. A kind of silence that pressed lightly on your chest, but at the same time felt calming.

Hope you don’t explode from noise.

He nodded toward his guitar in the corner.

Because I do.