The cold didn't welcome him. It surrounded him.
Not the kind of cold that fades after a few minutes in the sun — but the kind that stays. The kind that clings to your ribs, settles into your spine, and reminds you with every breath that this place is not home. That you are a stranger here.
Germany, in February, wasn't just cold in temperature. It was cold in tone, cold in rhythm. And it didn't care who you were or where you came from.
He stood outside the airport terminal with a worn-out duffel bag slung over his shoulder and a second-hand winter coat zipped halfway up because the zipper was broken near the top. His sneakers were soaked from the slush. His socks, already too thin, squished with every step. It hadn't even been five minutes, and he already felt like he was bleeding warmth into the cobbled ground beneath him.
He pulled out his phone — cracked screen, 2% battery. The map app glitched for the third time that hour. He had saved the address of his new apartment, a place he'd never seen, never stepped foot in, only glimpsed through pixelated images sent by a man who barely replied to his texts.
A cheap bus ticket. An unfamiliar language. A schedule already running late. This was the start.
He boarded the bus to the city center, pressing his forehead to the glass as Germany rolled past him in shades of gray and concrete. Trams screeched along metal rails. Cyclists sped past cars that waited like statues at red lights. The air outside looked thick with cloud and wet with unfinished snow. Even the sky seemed exhausted.
The driver didn't announce stops. The signs were in long, twisted words he couldn't pronounce. "Nächster Halt: Marienstraße." He had practiced those syllables a dozen times on Duolingo. It still sounded like a riddle.
By the time he found the right street, the sun had dipped. The wind grew louder between the buildings. He counted the apartment numbers in reverse, dragging his bag over cracks in the pavement until he reached the front of an old building that looked like it had long since given up trying to impress anyone.
Peeling yellow paint. A buzzer that didn't work. Trash bags lining the front steps.
He knocked twice. Then three more times.
The door finally opened.
A man stood there with dark circles under his eyes and a can of beer already half-empty in one hand. He wore socks and sandals. His hair looked like it hadn't been combed in a week.
"You're the new guy?"
The voice was flat. Slurred slightly. No warmth. No judgment either. Just routine.
The man turned and walked back into the hallway, leaving the door open without another word.
He stepped inside.
The stairwell smelled like cigarette ash and wet concrete. The hall light flickered. He passed two doors on the way to his room, both open, both with people inside playing loud music on tinny speakers.
His room — if it could be called that — had a mattress on the floor, a broken plastic chair, and a small window that faced a wall covered in graffiti. The radiator wheezed like an old man with lung problems. One bulb in the ceiling flickered overhead.
He sat on the mattress and let the silence settle.
This was it.
No fanfare. No speeches. No cinematic soundtrack.
Just the beginning of whatever this chapter of his life was supposed to be.
---
The first week passed like molasses.
The roommates were loud. Messy. Oblivious. The kitchen was a battlefield of unwashed dishes, sticky counters, and a fridge that smelled like rot. He tried cleaning once. The next day, it was worse.
He started cooking at odd hours — before sunrise or past midnight — just to avoid conversation.
Rice. Eggs. Ramen. Repeat.
The money he'd brought with him vanished in two weeks. Rent, transit, Wi-Fi, cleaning supplies. What little remained was wired home without hesitation.
He didn't complain.
He wrote it down.
Notebook Entry: Day 6
Room's freezing.
No blanket. Just this jacket.
Bought rice — should last two weeks.
German still feels like static in my ears.
Boss doesn't speak English. Just points.
Not gonna break. Not gonna quit.
---
He worked long hours washing dishes in a back kitchen that smelled like old grease and steam. The gloves they gave him were too big. The floor was always slick. The manager barked in fast, clipped German. He nodded and learned to move before being told.
The paycheck wouldn't come for a month. That was standard, they said.
So he waited.
And survived.
Nights were the hardest.
Not because of fear.
But because of silence.
Not the peaceful kind — the crushing kind.
The kind that pressed down on his chest and whispered, No one's coming. You're on your own.
He spent those hours watching YouTube videos at 144p. Learning German phrases. Practicing HTML tutorials. Reading articles about "how to start from nothing."
The screen light was cold. The chair hurt his back. But he kept going.
He made rules for himself:
Wake up by 6 a.m.
15 pushups, even if it hurts
Learn 5 new German words
Practice coding 1 hour minimum
No skipping meals
No wasting time
He called it "training."
No one else could see it. But he did.
Notebook Entry: Day 14
Roommate stole my last banana.
Not angry. Just noted.
Gym too expensive. Found bodyweight program online.
Learning CSS. It's confusing but not impossible.
Still no paycheck.
Rationing rice.
---
By the third week, he was skinnier.
His cheeks had hollowed slightly.
He moved slower.
Spoke less.
But his eyes… his eyes were getting sharper.
Every failure fed something inside him.
Something that hadn't had a voice before.
Something ancient.
Patient.
And it was starting to wake up.
He started dreaming again — vivid dreams of progress. Of running without fatigue. Of typing at lightning speed. Of understanding every German word without translation. Dreams so vivid they left a lingering imprint even after he woke.
But sometimes, he'd wake up to more than just memories.
---
The crash came on day 28.
He had just finished rewriting a layout in HTML. His eyes burned. His fingers shook. His stomach had been growling for hours.
He stood to grab water — and collapsed.
No warning. No drama.
Just darkness.
---
When he opened his eyes, it was morning.
The room was clean.
The mattress had been straightened.
His journal was closed and placed beside his laptop.
And on the laptop…
His code had been rewritten. Better. Sleeker. Optimized.
His bookmarks had doubled.
The German notes had been reorganized into sections.
A file sat on his desktop:
"ReadMe.txt"
He opened it.
Only one line:
> "While you rest… I rise."
---
He stared at it for a long time.
Long enough to question if he had done it all in a trance.
Long enough to wonder… if he was still alone in his own mind.
And in that silence — deeper than anything else he'd ever felt — he heard it.
A voice.
Not outside.
Not from his ears.
From within.
"This is only the beginning."