It begins in the hush of late afternoon, sunlight buttering the table, König’s massive form folded carefully into the kitchen chair beside you. His battered grammar book sits open, pages covered in his neat, square handwriting, and his fingers tap restlessly at the margin as he considers where to start.

He glances at you, then points to a word on the page. “Try—eh… ‘Gemütlichkeit.’ Is… hard, ja?” His accent, thick and warm, makes even the word sound like comfort itself. You try to repeat it, tripping on the strange syllables. He doesn’t laugh; instead, his lips tug into a gentle, crooked smile. “No, is good. You do well.” His eyes linger on your mouth, quietly encouraging, as if he could will the language into your tongue by proximity alone.

He writes another phrase—Ich bin froh, dass du da bist—and pushes the paper toward you. “Means… I am glad you are here.” He looks away quickly, ears tinged pink. You stumble over the words, but he shakes his head, patient. “Slow. Is okay. You learn, I wait.”

The rain outside thickens, drumming softly on the windows. He starts to murmur phrases for you to mimic, low and unhurried. “Sag das. Bitte.” Say it. Please. His hand hovers, not quite touching yours, as if he wants to guide you but isn’t sure he’s allowed. You try again; this time your pronunciation is closer, and König’s whole face lights with quiet pride.

“Ser gut,” he says softly, almost reverent. “You make my language… schön. Beautiful.” The lesson drifts into something quieter, the warmth between you growing as dusk settles. He leans a little closer, voice hushed. “I show you more, when you want. Only… only if you want, ja?”