Karl looked at his granddaughter.
“I shouldn’t have spoken to you like that.”
Emma hesitated.
Then she crossed the room and placed the ruler on his desk.
“You can borrow it.”
Karl stared at the ruler.
His face tightened.
“Thank you.”
Afterwards, Anna spoke with him privately.
She reminded him that Emma was six and could not be expected to manage his confusion.
Karl agreed.
He had spent years teaching young architects that the person responsible for a design had to consider how others would use it.
Now he was struggling to apply the same principle to his own behaviour.
He began asking Anna to remain nearby during activities on difficult days.
It cost him some pride.
It also allowed him to continue spending meaningful time with Emma without placing too much responsibility on her.
One rainy afternoon in November, Emma came home from school carrying a drawing.
It showed a house with a red door, yellow windows, and two figures standing outside.
One was small, with yellow boots.
The other was tall and held a walking stick.
She found Karl sitting by the window.
“Grandpa, look.”
He took the drawing.
“Very nice.”
“That’s our house.”
“I can see that.”
“And that’s you.”
He studied the taller figure.
“Why am I so thin?”
Emma giggled.
“Because I ran out of room.”
“Unfortunate.”
He examined the red door.
“You remembered the entrance.”
She nodded.
“Because everybody needs a way out.”
Karl smiled.
“And a way in.”
She climbed onto the chair beside him.
“Grandpa, are you going to forget our house?”
He looked at her.
The question was so direct that he did not immediately answer.
“I hope not.”
“What if you do?”
He glanced toward the hallway.
“Then your mum and dad will help me.”
Emma considered that.
“What if you forget my room?”
Karl turned back toward her.
“Why would I need to find your room?”
She looked surprised.
“To say goodnight.”
Of course.
Every evening since moving into the house, Karl had visited Emma before bedtime.
He would knock on her door, sit beside her bed, and ask what she wanted to know about the world.
The questions varied.
Why did the moon sometimes appear during the day?
Could buildings get tired?
Why did people have birthdays if they didn’t want to get older?
Once, she asked whether trees knew when they were beautiful.
Karl had been unable to answer.
He told her that architects usually worked with less philosophical clients.
Emma laughed.
The goodnight visits had become the most reliable part of their shared routine.
Even on difficult days, Karl tried to make them.
He might forget the title of a book or repeat a story.
But Emma still looked forward to the knock on her door.
Karl placed her drawing on the table.
“I’ll do my best not to forget.”
She frowned.
“That’s not a proper promise.”
He smiled sadly.
“No. It isn’t.”
Emma took his hand.
“Then I’ll remind you.”
Karl squeezed her fingers.
“Thank you, little sparrow.”
That night he went to her room as usual.
He knocked three times.
Emma called, “Come in!”
He sat beside her bed.
She had arranged her stuffed animals beneath the blanket.
“Are they comfortable?” Karl asked.
“Yes.”
“Good. A well-designed bedroom should accommodate its occupants.”
She smiled.
He read two pages from a storybook.
Then he asked whether she had enjoyed school.
She told him about a disagreement involving coloured pencils.
He listened carefully.
When he stood to leave, Emma caught his sleeve.
“Grandpa?”
“Yes?”
“Don’t forget the three knocks.”
He looked at the door.
“Three knocks.”
She nodded.
“So I’ll always know it’s you.”
Karl smiled.
“All right.”
He knocked three times on the wooden bedframe.
Emma laughed.
“Not now!”
“Just practising.”
She pulled the blanket to her chin.
“Goodnight, Grandpa.”
“Goodnight, little sparrow.”
He switched off the bedside lamp.
In the hallway, he paused.
For a moment, he could not remember whether his bedroom was to the left or right.
He looked at the doors.
Then he followed the familiar pattern of the floorboards toward the room he had shared with Ingrid.
He reached it without help.
But before getting into bed, he wrote three words on a scrap of paper.
Emma. Three knocks.
He placed it beside the lamp.
Winter settled over Dresden.
The days shortened, and the windows gathered condensation each morning.
Karl began experiencing more frequent episodes of disorientation, particularly when tired or waking during the night.
Once, Matthias found him standing at the top of the staircase at two in the morning.
“Dad?”
Karl turned.
He was wearing his dressing gown and slippers.
“Where’s the bathroom?”
Matthias pointed toward the hallway.
“Just there.”
Karl looked at the door.
“Of course.”
His son approached.
“Are you all right?”
“Yes.”
But his voice lacked conviction.
Matthias walked him back to his room.
The next morning, he and Anna discussed the nighttime confusion with Karl’s care team and reviewed ways to make the house easier and safer to navigate.
They improved lighting, cleared unnecessary furniture from walking routes, and placed simple signs at key doors.
Karl hated the signs.
He considered them ugly.
“A house shouldn’t need instructions,” he complained.
Matthias looked toward the hallway.
“Dad, you designed public buildings. You know perfectly well people need signs.”
“Public buildings are different.”
“Why?”
“Because the people using them don’t live there.”
Matthias hesitated.
He understood the point his father was making, even if it did not change the practical need.
Karl looked away.
“I’ve lived in this house for forty years.”
