The flight from Berlin to Innsbruck was a short one, an hour or so, give or take a tailwind. Bruno rarely noticed the time.
For him, the true measure was not in minutes or miles, but in mood: Berlin was steel and marble, all gravity and thunder.
Tyrol was granite and pine, cool mountain air and silence.
One was the fulcrum of power. The other, peace.
The hum of the aircraft's propellers faded as the plane descended over the Alps.
Snow still capped the higher ridges despite the spring thaw.
The mountains looked eternal, unmoved by history's churn.
Bruno gazed out the window, his face unreadable, but his shoulders slowly lowering.
The moment the first forests came into view, something behind his eyes softened.
He was going home.
By the time the wheels touched down on the private airstrip outside Innsbruck, dusk had painted the sky in bruised hues of lilac and rose.
A black limousine waited on the tarmac, already warmed.
A single driver opened the door with a nod.
