Work Text:
December 3rd, 2024 - Berlin, Germany - 7:12 pm
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A storm rages over the German capital. Pittering and pattering ain filles the silence when thunder takes a rest. Like the buzzing of bees, they tap against the window of a prosecutor, today now 25 years of age.
Franziska von Karma saw her birthday as nothing special. So what if 25 years ago she graced this planet with her existence? It was nothing special.
Her Papa never celebrated birthdays. Her older half-siblings were forbidden from contacting her, no exceptions- not that Franziska thought they'd want to wish her a happy birthday; or for anything.
So, she stands there miserably after a long day at work, soaked in rainwater. Franziska is not bitter as she stomps down the hall into her room to change into warm, dry clothes. She does not feel anger as she then puts away her briefcase, aggressively shoving unneeded documents into their places in her home office. She does not feel resentment and does not glare at her phone as she passes it on her way back to her empty living room.
And if Franziska punched her pillow after sitting down, it was not because she abhors the fact that every year she gets older she is stuck with an odd feeling of emptiness, that she is not feeling now.
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7:29 pm
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Franziska pitties the mail carrier who rang her doorbell to give her a parcel this late at night on a Tuesday. The package is not soaking like everything else outside, so she was nice enough to let the carrier go with a sorrowful 'Danke'.
The box is simple, normal cardboard. Marked with clearing stamps from Germany and Finland.
Finland..?
Franziska tears open the box, not caring that it is improper. A rectangle sleeve of macarons and a case of licorice tea. The unusual items seem to tug at her heart with a buried sense of familiarity. Removing the edibles with care, Franziska finds herself fighting tears she had suppressed all day.
One thing was under the victuals. A photo. A photo from 16 years ago.
The pictures's quality was low and grainy, but three things are clear: Franziska, Miles, and the Eiffel Tower. Franziska stares at the captured image and then flips it over.
"Fran's 9th, breaking rules in Paris"
It reads on the back.
Franziska feels her brows furrow as she glares at the paper memory. The tower in the background is the same as it was the last time she visited. Her and Miles’ noses are red from the bitter cold that day, but smiling slightly. Foolish hope.
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November 10th, 2008
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Franziska presses closer to Miles’ side, tears running fast, hot, and hard. Any other 8-year-old wouldn’t have understood the picture she came across God knows how long ago. Miles, today 16, is quiet as she snuggles closer. Part of it’s the drugs, and also the shock that the rope only a few meters in front of him he had been attempting to use moments before to hang himself.
But also shame.
Shame that he got this far deep into the spiral represented by the lines around the midsection of his forearms. The influence of the meds that would show on a panel conducted during his would have been autopsy. Shame that he would have left Franziska behind.
Speaking of the younger, she now scolds him harshly. Words young Fran would have never dared use under any other circumstance flow from her mouth in German fury.
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December 3rd, 2024 - 7:51 pm
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Franziska, age 25, sits at her kitchen island. Salty tears slip into her cup of licorice tea. Half-eaten macarons sit on her napkin. Her head aches from crying and the memory, as bittersweet as her gifted tea.
After a moment’s hesitation, he reaches to pull her phone into her grasp.
Foolish Brother
-Today-
Thank you.<
(7:52)
>There is nothing you have to thank me for.
For living, stubborn mule.<
>My pleasure.
>Hey, Schwester?
Was?<
>Happy Birthday.