July 2nd, 2027
Irma was heavy, but like an opera singer, every curve had purpose. She was not fat; she had gravity. At 170 cm, they saw eye to eye. Her hair had turned white in her forties, and by her fifties, she'd stopped dyeing it. She had deep blue eyes, a little too close together, round rosy cheeks and a sharp nose.
But her soul... was deep and pure enough to love the world.
Without election, appointment, discussion, or resistance, she replaced her late husband as Bürgermeister. Müett remained the Ghost, but now she had his ear and often his coordination.
Driven by her robust desires, she could withstand only three months of solitude before dragging Müett into her bed, despite the ever-present grief for her late husband—a sorrow she knew would accompany her always. To adhere to decorum, they observed an additional three months of discretion before making their relationship public.
This night, he rolled off her, spent, while his heavy breathing returned to normal.
Early July this year unfurled with warm days and cool nights, crafting a canvas where nature itself seemed to pause and sigh. As the fire crackled softly in the background, casting a warm, gentle glow over the room, Irma turned to him, her eyes reflecting the dance of the flickering flames. A soft laugh escaped her, tinged with a hint of curiosity and an undercurrent of intimacy. "I don't even know your real name..." Her voice trailed off, not just seeking an answer but inviting him into a moment of vulnerability, where names and identities could be shared like secrets whispered between the logs of the burning fire.
Müett paused, his thoughts swirling like the smoke rising from the fire. He was torn between the vulnerability of opening up and the fear that, perhaps, he was merely a rebound. There lingered a nagging worry that if he laid bare his soul, the universe might seize the moment to deliver heartbreak with a cruel chuckle. Yet, in the warmth of the fire and the sincerity in Irma's eyes, he found the courage to bridge the gap that uncertainty had carved between them. With a tentative smile, as if borrowing warmth from the glow of the fire, Müett ventured into the realm of emotional intimacy, cautiously beginning to share parts of his soul.
Müett paused, considering how much of himself he was ready to share. He still worried he was a rebound and fear if he gave himself completely, the universe would laugh and break his heart. Then, deciding that some stories were meant to bridge distances between souls, he smiled softly.
"Müett," he said, his voice a soft echo of the flames' whispers, "isn't just a nickname or an afterthought. It's woven into the fabric of who I am, a piece of family history that's clung to me since my earliest days." His admission flowed like warmth from the hearth, a story shared not just as information, but as an invitation into the deeper, more intimate spaces of his life.
He recounted the tale of his infancy, a time when he was remarkably quiet, never prone to crying—a trait that had amused and somewhat relieved his parents. "'Muette,' in French, means silent. My parents used it affectionately to describe my calm nature."
"But," he continued, a chuckle escaping him, "it was Sophia, my sister, two years my senior, who truly named me. She tried to mimic our parents, her toddler's attempt at 'muette' transforming into 'Müett.' And just like that, a name was born."
Irma listened intently, her gaze never wavering from his face. Within the simplicity of his story, she discovered a depth of character and caught a glimpse into the essence of the man who had become her protector, her confidant, and a lover who, though needing much guidance, was eager to learn. The name "Müett," once shrouded in mystery, now emerged as a symbol of the quiet strength and resilience that defined him.
"Your sister gave you a name that suits you," Irma said after a moment, her voice soft but sure. "Müett... it's unique, memorable."
After a pause, Irma added, "Your sister, is she..."
In their current world, it wasn't a question that needed finishing. Everyone had lost so many.
"I don't know," he said reflectively, "Our lives took different paths. The last decade we shared a handful of short emails a month. Then the internet fell. Last I knew she was in Sylt, married with two grown children."
"There's still hope then," it was the kind thing one said but didn't really believe. Though Irma, he mused, held a more optimistic view than he did. His world was not to be trusted.
"Götz and I couldn't have children. Did you not want any?"
Your revised passage has a deeply introspective and touching quality, conveying Müett's emotional journey with great sensitivity. Here are a few minor adjustments for flow and clarity:
"My father was an army man, a fact that shaped much of my early life in ways I'm only beginning to unravel. Each new city—Hamburg, Hanover, Cologne, Berlin, Dresden, Wiesbaden—promised a fresh start, but in truth, it was just another backdrop against which the same lonely play unfolded. I trailed in his wake, a shadow to his disciplined march, yet he remained as distant as the horizon we chased. Connections to others, known from the start to be transient, left a mark."
He paused, gathering his thoughts, then continued, "In adulthood, this realization hit me with the force of a revelation: he was more a concept than a person in my life. The military wasn't just his career; it was the architect of my existence, shaping how I interacted with people: strangers, acquaintances, and family alike.
"I vowed not to replicate that cycle. The thought of a partner relegated to the margins of my life, as my mother was, filled me with dread. And the idea of children growing up to find me as much a stranger as my father was to me... it was unbearable. I couldn't subject anyone to that kind of emptiness, that profound absence at the core of their being."
As he spoke, the words flowed not just from his lips but from the deep wellsprings of his heart, carrying with them years of unspoken thoughts and emotions. It was a catharsis, an unburdening he hadn't known he needed until this moment.
Irma listened, her presence a quiet beacon of understanding in the soft glow of the firelight. Her eyes held his, a mirror to the vulnerability and introspection he laid bare. In this space, between the flickering shadows and the warmth of the hearth, their souls touched, forging a connection that transcended words. Müett's story, a tapestry of silent yearnings and introspective revelations, wove into Irma's essence, drawing them closer in a bond marked by shared vulnerabilities and unguarded truths.