Fairy tales.
Fairy tales often begin with guilt and ends with redemption.
The protagonist sets off on a journey. Is in search of a treasure or his beloved person. The protagonist makes friends. Gets to know himself and his fears.
Anything is possible in a fairy tale.
Sorrow.
Pain.
Fear.
Even love has a purpose.
Love redeems, it ends suffering. It is unconditional, infinite.
Love is the greatest force in the universe.
Love alone is capable of defeating evil or even transforming it into good.
Everything has a meaning.
Fairy tales do not exist.

…

The clatter of the old gray keyboard mixes with the clatter of the other keyboards and the steady murmur of people. Erik and Gustave have come a long way, but the citizens' office is a gray, dreary place. With gray, dreary people. And a gray, dreary carpet. The air is stale and thick, a window can't be opened here. The worry that another civil servant will jump out of the window is too great. Health and safety.
To bring a breath of fresh air into the gray daily routine, there is a lone Monstera plant in the office space. Its leaves were once green when it was placed in its pot. Now they also look gray - it is camouflaging itself.
Becomes one with its surroundings.
Erik's gaze wanders around the room and lingers on his clerk. He has been typing for five minutes now without making the slightest expression. The clerk glances from his screen at Gustave, who is staring into space with a demure look of determination and boredom.
“Pfff,” escapes Erik, and he turns away. The clerk's chair creaks as he leans over the table. “Please be a little quieter,” he grumbles, and the chair creaks again.
Erik presses both hands on the surgical mask and fights desperately with a suppressed laugh that is lodged in his throat and won't go away.

“We still need a biometric photo. Do you have one with you?” asks the man with the tired eyes and sallow skin, who seems to be leading a flat existence on this desk. Erik puts his hand in his trouser pocket. When he places his fist on the table and opens it, he reveals lint, bottle caps, a side cutter, a button and a crumpled passport photo. “Here,” he mumbles, pulls the picture out of the mess and hands it to the officer.
The clerk looks at the photo with disinterest. A minimal twitch of the eye. Wow, Erik thinks, an emotional masterpiece.
“Pojke,” mumbles Gustave, ”how many times did I tell you to keep the side cutter in the store?”
“Forgotten,” whispers Erik, staring at the floor in shame.
345 times forgotten, he counts inwardly. He can't explain why the side cutter is worth more attention to Gustave than the rest of his stuff.

“Please sign here,” says the clerk monotonously. “That will be €38.98. We only accept exact cash payments.”
“No problem” Erik reaches for the pen with his left hand, puts his signature on the documents in his childish handwriting and then pulls out his wallet. Or rather, a Ziploc bag. He still doesn't have a real wallet. He also finds it practical to see directly how much money he currently has. He starts to take change and a few bills out of the plastic bag.
Every single coin is meticulously counted.
The clerk's already empty eyes become more of a vacuum by the second. And Gustave also seems to be drifting off inside.
While Erik counts the coins with a mischievous smile and then pushes them across the table: “... and ninety-eight. You'd better count them again,” grumbles Erik.

The officer looks at him unaffected for a moment. “... I'd rather staple my tie to my forehead,” he replies dryly and hands Erik the pick-up slip. “Come by in two weeks with this pick-up slip, and you'll get your new ID card.”
He turns away without another word, and the little red light on his desk turns green again.
Just outside, both men groan at the same time.
“How I haven't missed the citizens' office!” exclaims Gustave and Erik mumbles something incomprehensible about his dislike of offices and bureaucracy as he unties Sasha from a bicycle stand. The dog barks happily, she is almost full-grown - she has now reached an impressive knee height.
What genes are in this dog is a mystery.
Christine had tried to determine the breed the previous evening using her smartphone and a photo search. After a heated discussion, they agreed that it was not the breed that was decisive, but the dog's health. Although only in Erik's world was it a discussion. After a few sentences, he had broken off the conversation anyway.
The administrative procedures had taken three months in total, and spring was in full swing.

“We're done then, aren't we?” asks Erik as he presses around a crumpled can and tries to squeeze out the dents. “Yes,” mumbles Gustave, ”only the ID is missing. Then you're officially registered with us. The tax office has already contacted us. Everything is proceeding as it should.” The old violin maker watches as Erik places the refundable can beside a trash container so that someone else can take it.
The ringing of the store doorbell announces the men's return. Christine's curly head emerges from the kitchen. “Dad, Giovanni called, he wants you to call him back.”
“Uhh, I was wanted!” Gustave comments with a broad grin, grabs the phone and disappears into the back room. Erik unleashes Sasha and sends her to her basket behind the register. One basket of many. There are more baskets in the kitchen, in the back room and in Christine's room. Only Erik's room is free of them - his Sasha is allowed to sleep in his bed.
He takes off his leather jacket and steps into the kitchen. It smells of mint tea. “Thought you'd want to warm up first,” Christine mumbles and holds the cup out to him.
“Thanks,” he says and takes the cup. It still feels strange - people who care about him, who are looking after him. A woman who is so kind. It feels like a fever dream. A fairy tale which is sure to end at some point, he thinks. Then he will wake up and realize that he is still on the street.

Lonely and abandoned.

He takes off his mask and sips his hot tea. “What else is on the agenda today?” she asks, reaching for her coffee.
Silence.
He sips his tea again. His sweater sleeve runs over the open part of his mouth, as usual. “Not... much,” he finally mumbles.
“Well, then I'll duck back upstairs. There aren't many customers today. Shall I take Sasha upstairs with me?” asks Christine.
Silence again.
She sighs, some days they get on well together, other days the conversations drift apart. “As you wish,” he finally mumbles and gives her way as she walks past him.
Then his hand rises automatically, “Ah...” he reaches for her sweater sleeve. She looks up at him in wonder.
“W... Would...” he stammers.
The doorbell rings all the way into the kitchen.
Erik lets go of her and hurriedly puts his mask back on, pushes past her and quickly positions himself at the register, ready to help the customers. But there is something unspoken in his gaze that hovers between them for a moment - something he cannot put into words.