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"Difficult roads often lead to beautiful destinations." — Zig Ziglar |
| Platform 13 of Hamburg Central Station shimmered like a private catwalk for the polished elite. Businessmen in tailored suits flicked glances at their Rolexes; women walked like they belonged in perfume ads, heels clicking with military precision. Even the soldiers waiting on orders looked like they’d stepped off a recruitment poster—clean, composed, commanding. But Annie turned heads like no one else. She stood still, poised at the platform’s edge in a scarlet sheath dress that hugged her like a whispered secret. Her blonde hair pulled back into a sleek tail, caught the light as she tilted her chin just slightly—just enough. A matching designer suitcase stood beside her like a loyal accessory. She didn’t look around. She didn’t need to. She felt their eyes like warmth on her skin—admiring, envious, hungry. Up on the balconies overlooking the platforms, faces leaned over the railings. To her, they might as well have been a crowd of paparazzi. She had learned to walk like a woman worth watching. Then the screaming started. It came from behind, raw and out of place—too primal for a place so civilized. She turned, confusion puckering her brow. And then the crowd buckled. People dropped as if struck by an invisible force. But it wasn't invisible. It was a woman. A blur of hair and steel. Knife flashing. She was slicing through the crowd like a brush fire—erratic, screaming, blood spraying the concrete like some macabre modern art. A woman in heels went down first, hands to her belly. Then a man clutched his throat and stumbled into a bench. Annie didn’t move. She couldn’t. Her heels were anchors. Her breath stuck in her throat like gum. And then—the woman was on her. A blur of motion, a silver arc—and white-hot agony tore through her cheek. Annie dropped, clutching her face as warmth flooded her palm. A scream broke loose from deep in her gut, high and animal. She didn’t see the woman go down, only heard the thuds on the platform as bodies collided nearby—heard a roar and a grunt. Someone tackled the attacker—someone else, shouting in a language she didn’t understand, held her down. Annie just knelt there. Bleeding. Watching her own red drip between the cracks in the concrete like she was draining into the earth. One Year Later She woke in the dark, gasping. The dream clung to her skin like oil—the screaming, the blood, the pain. Her pillow was damp. Her scar itched. Or maybe it was phantom pain. Her fingers found it automatically, tracing the angry ridge that cut across her cheek like a signature she’d never asked for. She turned on the bathroom light. The mirror didn’t flinch, though she did. The scar gleamed under fluorescent light—a line of tissue, pale and ridged, cutting diagonally like an accusation. “Ugly,” she whispered. Not to the mirror. To herself. The word echoed, loud in her mind, louder than her therapist’s pep talks or her mother’s soft tears. Those only made it worse, like being told to swim while your arms were still broken. Her father’s voice came back to her then, uninvited: “Beauty fades. Secure something permanent before it does.” She had rolled her eyes back then, furious at the cynicism. But now? Now she wasn’t sure if he’d been cruel or just honest. She hadn’t secured anything. Not love. Not work. Not even herself. Six Months Since the Firing Annie had once been the golden charm of BigTell GmbH, the towering software and media conglomerate whose mirrored skyscraper, 'the Dancing Towers' dominated the Hamburg skyline like a monument to corporate ambition. From the 24th floor, where strategy meetings blurred into cocktail hours, Annie had worked her magic — not with spreadsheets or slide decks, but with the soft power of charisma. She had a talent, undeniable and quietly envied: a way of making middle-aged executives — usually men, tired from years of boardroom battles — feel like they were still sharp, still charming, still relevant. A single client dinner with Annie often sealed million-euro contracts. Her laughter — easy, melodic — had a disarming warmth that made closing deals seem like a natural byproduct of shared stories and eye contact that lingered a second too long. But now, the laughter was gone. The scar, running across her cheekbone like a whisper of past violence, had done more than mar her face. It carved into her confidence, unseated something essential in her. She no longer walked into client meetings with the same kinetic grace. The unspoken spell — that magnetic ease — had dissolved into something heavier, more uncertain. Conversations turned clinical, strained, and transactional. The charm offensive had become just another pitch. In the glass-walled conference rooms of BigTell, where ambition fed on bloodless efficiency, no one spoke about what had changed — only that Annie’s numbers were slipping. Her leads grew cold, her meetings shorter. Her sadness, once masked beneath mascara and charm, had begun to surface in subtle ways: the tightness in her smile, the way her hands gripped the edge of the table when presenting, the lack of sparkle in her banter. She still dressed impeccably, and still smelled like confidence in bottled form, but now it felt like costume. Annie wasn’t sure if the men no longer saw her, or if she no longer saw herself in their gaze. In either case, the effect was the same: silence where there had once been power. She would stare out over Hamburg in the late afternoons — the Elbe stretching beyond the skyline, barges moving like silent thoughts — and wonder whether she had ever truly been in control of the room, or whether she had only ever been the mood that happened to suit the moment. Now, with her new face and new silence, the moment no longer called for her. When her boss called her she spoke of "restructuring" but Annie knew it was because she was no longer in player in the great game. Now jobless, she lived in her mother’s apartment. Too broken to start over, too ashamed to fight, still needing the support. The pity was the worst. Her mother’s teary eyes. The way people flinched when they looked too long. The way they'd try to cover it with kindness. She didn’t want comfort. She wanted someone to show her a way out of her despair, she was looking for a light in her darkness. So she went back to the last person who'd ever seemed to have the answers. The Door The old house smelled like wood smoke from the fireplace and memories. She saw him through the glass—older, grayer, but unmistakable. The years had softened his face but hadn’t bent his spine. He stood straight-backed as ever, watchful like he’d always been, the kind of man who paid attention even when he said nothing. He opened the door before she could knock a second time. His eyes flicked to her scar, then back to her eyes. No wince. No pity. Just a flicker of something deeper—something like grief wrapped in recognition. “Hello, beautiful,” he said. She flinched. Beautiful? But he said it like it was still true, like it always had been. He waved her inside with a casualness that cost him more than he let on. She stepped in, suddenly small again, taking off her shoes without being told, like a child returning home after getting lost. In the kitchen, he moved with the same quiet rhythm she remembered—green tea for her, coffee for himself, the cupboard still organized the way her mother had left it. He didn't ask questions. Not yet. “Come,” he said, and led her to the old green couch that sagged in the middle but still held its shape. She sat. Her hands trembled. “Daddy…” she began. Her throat closed. The tears came suddenly, violently, without permission. She buried her face in her hands. He didn’t say anything. Just shifted closer and pulled her into his side like he had all the time in the world. Like he'd been waiting for this moment, afraid it might never come. His arms were gentle but sure, the way only a man who has both held newborns and buried disappointments knows how to hold someone. When her sobs quieted, he leaned back slowly, giving her space, the way someone does when they’ve practiced restraint. “Your room’s still yours,” he said, voice even. “But you need a plan.” She gave a hollow laugh. “What plan? I'm ruined. You saw my face.” “I saw my daughter. Still beautiful.” “Don’t lie to me.” He didn’t flinch. His voice remained calm—not soft, not harsh, just solid, like a hand on your back when you’re learning to walk again. “It’s not a lie. Your looks were never the source of your power. You just thought they were. Your kindness, your sharpness, your fire—that’s what made people follow you. That scar didn’t steal those things. It just made you forget you had them. It adds character now, gives you a story. The question is—who narrates the text of that story?” He paused, gave her time to breathe. “It’s yours,” he said. “You should write it.” She stared at him, still unsure. He leaned forward just a little—not crowding her, just meeting her where she was. “You were playing with the queen of hearts and thought you’d lost the game when you dropped it. But sweetie, you’ve still got the ace.” He tapped his temple, then his chest. “And that’s in here.” A laugh escaped her—small but real. “A pirate captain, maybe?” he added, mouth tugging into a grin. “Scar and all.” She rolled her eyes, but her smile lingered. “Not exactly the career path I imagined.” “Then imagine a better one. And build it. People see what you show them. You walk in ashamed, they pity you. You walk in owning the scar—they admire you.” A beat of silence passed. Something softer moved between them now. “Why did I hate you for so long?” she whispered. He took a sip of coffee, calm even in the face of that sharp truth. “Maybe you didn’t,” he said. “Maybe you just borrowed someone else’s anger before life gave you something of your own to be angry about.” He looked at her now, fully. “How you use that anger… that’s up to you.” Annie looked down at her tea, at her hands—steady now. “So,” he said, setting his mug aside, voice quiet but expectant, “what’s your plan?” She looked up, and for the first time in months, her eyes didn’t flicker or hide. They held. “First, I’m getting a job. I’ll sell adventure cruises if I have to—maybe in St. Pauli. Who better than a scarred pirate queen?” He laughed—not loudly, but with warmth, pride threaded through it. She laughed too. And for a moment, the weight slipped from her shoulders like an old coat. W/C & Notes ▼ |
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