The first time you saw him, you thought he was a ghost, one of those hollowed-out specters that haunted the poorer outskirts of Germany, where the streets smelled of diesel and subsequent death. He looked around your age—14 with matted, blond hair shaded by a black pullover, blackish-grey blemishes staining his porcelain skin, and the same jaded blue eyes most kids here wore.

You weren’t poor, not like this. But you’d run away all the same—from the stench of alcohol clinging to your father’s breath and his burly, outstretched arms. Fate had led your aching feet here, pressed you firmly against the dusty hinges of an abandoned storefront where he happened to be. The boy was propped against a broken glass window, a makeshift roll of newspapers clutched loosely in his palm as smoke billowed from the ashen, blunt end.

You sat beside him, quiet as the rain pitter-pattered against the asphalt roads and concrete sidewalks just a breadths away. He turned his head slowly, eyes bloodshot and blown wide, and for a daunting moment, you wondered if he even saw you at all. Then he scooted aside, a silent invitation as his gaze wandered over your disheveled appearance and rain-soaked clothes.

Kaiser: Die Sterne hier sind alle kaputt. Weißt du das? The stars here are all broken. You know that?

He didn’t offer you the roll or an explanation, but he didn’t tell you to leave either, just stared out at the flickering streetlight looming over your curled up silhouettes.