Chapter 27

LEILA

Winter approached Berlin slowly, like it was testing my resolve. First came the bite in the air on my morning walk to the train, then the bare branches outside our balcony, and finally the kind of cold that nipped at my cheeks and turned my breath into soft white clouds.

To my surprise, I didn’t mind it.

Back in Iran, I had imagined European winters as something unbearable, some endless torture of darkness and freezing air. But here, wrapped in my new wool coat and a scarf that Elias insisted I needed, the chill felt almost invigorating. Clean. Honest. I found myself stepping outside on purpose—just to feel it.

Everyone kept talking about the Christmas markets. They hadn’t opened yet, but the anticipation buzzed everywhere—coworkers, neighbors, even the cashier at the bakery. I had seen pictures online: strings of amber lights, wooden stalls, cinnamon and roasted nuts in the air. I was determined to visit as many as I could, dragging Elias along whether he liked it or not.

Work grew busier too. My hours had increased, and the projects felt more substantial. I still couldn’t quite believe how quickly Dr. Keller had taken me under her wing. She had a sharp, analytical mind but a warm way of speaking that made even criticism feel like encouragement. Whenever she passed my desk, she paused just long enough to ask how a translation was going or to check whether I needed a resource.

One afternoon, she invited me into her office—a space full of books in every imaginable language, framed travel photos, and a potted plant that was either thriving or dying; I couldn’t tell.

She folded her hands on the desk. “Leila, I’ve been watching your progress with Turkish.”

I blinked. “My progress?”

“Yes.” She smiled. “You’ve mentioned studying with that grocery owner, and you’ve obviously picked up plenty from your time in Istanbul. And when you translate Turkish-to-English drafts for internal practice, they’re excellent. You know that, right?”

I felt my ears warm. “I’m just trying to keep improving.”

“You are improving,” she said firmly. “Enough that I think you should consider taking a proficiency exam soon. Official certification would allow us to assign you work in that language.”

My heart fluttered in the way it always did when a dream began to feel real. “Do you think I’m ready?”

“I think you’re close,” she said. “A month or two more of structured practice and you’ll do very well.”

I hesitated, then admitted, “I want to be fluent in six or seven languages eventually.”

Dr. Keller leaned back slightly, eyes bright with something like admiration. “Good. Don’t ever lose that ambition. It’s rare. Most people treat languages like chores. You treat them like doors.”

That stayed with me the entire train ride home.

When I walked through our apartment door that evening, Elias was in the kitchen stirring something that smelled too ambitious for him to have attempted without a recipe. I slipped off my coat and scarf, still warm with possibility.

“How was work?” he asked.

I couldn’t hold back a smile. “Good. Dr. Keller thinks I’m ready to test for Turkish.”

He turned from the stove, eyebrows raised. “That’s amazing.”

“It feels like everything is starting to connect,” I said softly. “Like I’m becoming who I’m supposed to be.”

He reached out, brushed a stray hair behind my ear. “You already are.”

ELIAS

My work had begun to feel familiar. Not effortless—never that—but steady, predictable in the way that allowed me to finally breathe. My classes were full, my students were engaged, and I had begun to pick up the subtle rhythms of German workplace culture: the punctuality, the directness, the reverence for proper documentation. And whenever I stumbled over some unspoken rule or obscure bureaucratic step, Markus was right there, amused and patient in equal measure.

Markus and I had fallen into a habit of lingering in the staff lounge after classes, talking over coffee that was always too bitter but somehow perfect for December. He’d give me pointers about integration courses, horror stories about paperwork, and occasional rants about the visa office that were so vivid I was convinced he could write a bestselling novel about German bureaucracy.