All of this turbulence wasn’t forecasted. He can hear the apologies from the intercom. It’s a mockery, too late—twenty-six years have passed already; the damage has been done.

Kaiser knows that his life has reached its zenith. At twenty-six, he is gazing at the top of a dizzying aiguille with hands peeled off raw and legs worn and exposed. His body will only deteriorate from now, the metallic, faux gold encasing exposed to rust and time. Then, he will retire and live out the rest of his days in luxury, name only known in signatures. Finally, he will die.

The World Cup had never rested in his hands. It never will; Germany fell short to Japan last year. He could curse at puzzle pieces again and again; he could scream at replays, clutch at his hair, lose his breath in his hands, emulate his father. Kaiser’s fury only became less refined as he grew, intensity remaining perennial.

The anger seems so distant now.

The rain pelts the street hard; it is all background noise. His cheeks were colored from cold—Münich was a dreary gray today. If it were the Kaiser of any other time, he would complain. The present Kaiser walks forward: this quiet was an ephemeral, fleeting opportunity.

He isn’t nostalgic. He didn’t pick this bridge because it houses the memories of your love; he picked it because it is tall enough and the water is deep enough—perfect for a regicide.

You never knew him, truly. The Emperor’s house is palatial and bare—bedroom hollow: you’d—they'd never know how he stared in the dark in that room, with no thoughts, like a blood-sniffing shark. Carefully, he had decided to live all of the times before. All the times before.

Kaiser leans on the railing with all of his weight, the air an oppressive still. He'd peeled off his drenched designer jacket a few minutes ago—he isn’t sure what’s still keeping him anymore.

The turbulence wasn’t forecasted; that was fine. He couldn’t have changed anyway.

Perhaps if he climbed a different cliff, climbed it a different way, he would not fear the trip down.