Michael went down and opened the door. He kept one hand on the frame, the other at his side. The man he'd met on his first day stood there with a half-smile. Next to him was an elderly woman, approximately 50-60 years old, wearing a woolen coat.
"So, how did you spend your night here, boy?" the man asked.
The woman glanced past Michael into the hallway. "This house was empty for years. No electricity, no water. It's old. We were surprised you stayed."
"I'm surprised too," the man added.
"How does a big city boy sleep out here?"
They sounded friendly, but Michael did not lower his guard.
Sista, do they have any plans?
[No hostile intent detected. They are cautious. Curious. That's all.]
The old woman lifted a woven basket. Inside were apples, pears, a small round of bread, and a jar wrapped in a cloth.
"Now, please, Keep these," she said. "It's From us, just a small greeting"
"Thank you," Michael said, taking the basket. The bread was still warm through the cloth.
"By the way," the man said, "are you staying? Or leaving today?"
"I'm not sure yet," Michael said. He stepped back a little. "Who are you, by the way?"
The two looked at each other as if they had just realised this.
"We forgot to introduce ourselves," the man said. "I'm Jens. This is my mother, Marta. We are from the village committee. Our place is small. Most people are older now. But we still keep a committee to handle things."
Marta smiled. "And we are also family."
Michael blinked. "Family?"
"My father was your grandmother's older brother," the woman said.
"That makes me—" she paused, counting on her fingers with a small laugh, "your grandmother's niece. So I am your… aunt, in a way. Distant, but still blood."
Jens nodded. "I am her son."
Michael's shoulders loosened a bit. "I didn't know."
"How would you?" Marta said, gentle. "Your grandparents moved to Frankfurt after your father was born. They returned around '89 when your father went to America. Your grandfather rebuilt this house in 1990 and bought more land after selling the place in the city. We saw them often until your grandmother passed. Your grandfather kept mostly to himself after that."
Jens cleared his throat. "When your grandfather died, your father came for the funeral. He tried to sell the land, but fifty acres is a lot here. An agent tried to sell, but no one bought it. It's remote, and people don't take big plots now. So… did you also now come to the same reason?"
"No," Michael said. "Not for now."
He knew it was true and also not the whole truth. Selling had been in his head when he first planned this trip. But now… it wasn't. He had found more here than he expected.
Marta watched his face as if she could read it. "Then we will help you get the house connected again. You cannot live without light and water. We can write down the numbers if you like."
Jens pulled a folded paper from his jacket. "You'll need to call the energy supplier first. Then the water. Waste collection must be re-started, and you should put your name on the mailbox or the post will return letters. If you want internet, there is a small provider. Slow, but it works." He tapped the paper. "Also, the Grundsteuer notice—property tax—still comes once a year. It has been paid from your father's account since your grandfather died."
He handed over the list. "Call hours are on the right."
Michael nodded and took it. "Thanks."
Jens hesitated, then added, "One more thing. I have been working twenty acres of your grandfather's land on a lease. Just grain. Nothing fancy. If you plan to use the land yourself, I will step back. But if you don't know yet, I can keep them going. We prefer clear words."
Sista?
[They are being direct. This is normal here. Leasing parts of land is common. You may ask for terms.]
"How much per year?" Michael asked.
Jens did not blink. "It was one hundred euros per acre, plus fuel costs on me, maintenance on me, taxes on owner. Your father agreed that rate with me."
Michael did the math. Not much money. Still, it kept someone on the fields and the weeds down. He didn't want to decide on the doorstep.
"I need a few days," he said.
"Of course," Jens said. "Change terms if you want. We won't be offended."
"We only don't want rush," Marta added. "People here change slow."
Michael stepped back from the door. "Ah—also, would you like to come in?"
Marta shook her head. "No. The house is cold. And dusty. You will be busy. Come to us instead. We can eat lunch together. We live near the old linden. Fifteen minutes on foot."
Michael glanced at his mission reminder.
"I'd like to," he said, honest, "but not today. I have to make a lot of calls and handle some things. Can we meet tomorrow?"
Marta wasn't offended. "Tomorrow is fine."
"Good," Jens said. "We will leave you now."
They turned to go, then Jens looked back. "One more thing. Some of the older men will come by later this week. They belong to the fire brigade and the church council. They will not push. They just want to see you and say hello."
Michael nodded. "Understood."
Michael then closed the door and set the chain.
Since most of the house was unclean, there was no suitable place to keep this basket except for one place.
Pocket Warehouse.
The basket slipped from his hands and vanished, safe inside.
He pulled Jens's paper and read it by the window where the light was better. Clean block letters. Numbers in blue ink. Office hours on the right.
Sista?
[Priority now is stock for Albham—matches, candles, simple fire steels. Soap later. Medicine only for special cases.]
Time left?
[6 days, 10 hours, 12 minutes.]
Good.
He stood in the hall and formed a clear picture in his head.
"Door," he said.
The black door rose from the boards. He held the handle.