Being a family is sometimes not easy. Whether we are united by blood or not, each of us remains an individual. Christine and Gustave are well aware of their differences, but also of their sameness. They both need a regular daily routine, otherwise they fear that the house of cards will collapse. They love coffee equally. Sitting quietly together in the evening. The stories they tell each other about the things they have experienced on their own. Even the twitch of the little finger when one concentrates is exactly the same. They share a love of music, Christine often dances around the apartment singing loudly, and the rumbling of the ceiling always catches Erik's attention in the workshop. Anxiously, he tries not to remember, tries to forget.
This banging is not out of anger, he thinks to himself. It is dancing.
But sometimes Gustave and Christine are so alike that they drift apart. Then they become so different that neither of them is the same.

...

Erik stares at the wood-paneled ceiling of his room. He turns to the side, pulls Sasha closer to him, and tries desperately not to eavesdrop. Raised voices reach him from the end of the corridor.
“Christine, you have to learn to let go,” Gustave's voice is firm, but with a hint of concern. “You're only twenty, enjoy your youth!”

Christine looks at him with a wild glint in her eyes, her hands clasped in front of her. Her voice is sharp as she replies: “And what exactly is wrong with that? I can't just stand by and watch everything fall apart while I have the chance to do something!”
It's the same argument they've been having over and over again for weeks, becoming more frequent.
Erik's coming had made her happy about the newfound time. The time before Erik had been full of hardship, work and studying. She quickly had to admit to herself that his presence was a lucky twist of fate. Finally having more time and space for herself, but then - almost unnoticeably - she had the feeling again that she had had to take over. She couldn't help it, she had to. The two men, work long and hard, she can see that very well, but - it is what it is - they don't do it the way she does. From bookkeeping to reordering various products and work materials. They do it differently. And that makes her stomach ache. She has to prevent anything from going wrong at all costs.

People are problem solvers. Even if there are no problems, they have to be solved before they even exist. Christine must always be prepared.
For the possibility of something bad happening again. Something that costs a life. For something that costs her a lifetime.
“It won't collapse if you don't keep trying to fix all!” Gustave replies with a raised voice filled with a mixture of anger and reproach. “You have to live your own life, make your own decisions! Go partying with Raoul! Go on a trip! Make mistakes!”
“And how is that supposed to work?” hisses Christine. Her voice trembles with suppressed grief. “When I see how you're suffering from all this work! Let me help, as usual! I can't just be so selfish!”
Gustave leans in, resting on the old chair that creaks under his weight, and looks at her with a serious but desperate expression. “It's not about selfishness, Älskling. It's about you robbing yourself of your youth. What about your own dreams? What about your goals? You should focus on that, not always on your old father's problems,” he rubs his forehead wearily. Once again, he regrets not having been the father she so desperately needed back then.

After everything.
Back then, when Christine had to grow up overnight.

“You always said that family was the most important thing,” Christine replies, her voice now thin and trembling from the sadness she can no longer hide.

“Family doesn't mean you have to carry everything alone!” Gustave's voice is soft now, almost pleading, as he continues to speak in a final attempt to reach her. “You don't have to do everything for us. You're still young, Christine. You have the right to live your life. I'll manage!” Gustave tries to remember how today's argument started. Oh yes, his back. Several months ago, he had intended to make an appointment with a doctor and had simply forgotten about it. And now Christine had found the open packet of painkillers.
Right.
But why had he forgotten to make the appointment?
“I could help... if I... am allowed...” whispers an uncertain voice from the hallway. “I didn't mean to... eavesdrop... the walls...”
“Are thin,” Christine says with a sharp look at Erik. She wipes her burning eyes with the back of her hand and turns away.
“Give me the chance, min Älskling,” says Gustave, reaching out to his daughter. “Give us the chance to carry it.”
But Christine backs away, the shadows under her father's eyes send a shiver down her spine. No, she can't bear it. What if he -
She stumbles past Erik and leaves the kitchen.

“Christine!” her father calls after her, but she doesn’t turn around. Before he can react, he hears Erik's footsteps clattering down the stairs.

…

Out of breath, Erik comes to a halt, panting heavily as he braces his hands on his thighs and lifts his mask a bit. The last time he ran like this was after the shoplifting. Christine sits slumped on the edge of a small stream that flows through the old town. The stream that has been running along there for so many centuries, still a silent witness to a time long gone.
Erik sinks awkwardly to the ground next to her and remains silent for a moment. All they can hear is the sound of the water and the distant murmur of the city.
“I hate you,” she finally whispers, her voice rough, her gaze fixed on the surface of the water. “Everything was so calm. Everything made sense. And then you come along and suddenly there's always something. It's always changing... I don't want anything to change, Erik. I want it to stay the way it was.”
Erik listens, silent, until he finally takes a deep breath and mumbles, “I'm sorry. It was never my intention to disrupt your life.” He looks around for a moment, the streets are empty, hardly anyone goes to this part of the old town on a Sunday. He slowly pulls the mask under his chin.

Christine doesn't look at him. Her tears drip onto her jeans and the fabric turns dark blue, “I can't just let go of everything. If I lose the store, what will I have then?” Her voice breaks. “If I lose my place in life, what is there left for me?”
“Christine,” Erik begins, ”...so.... Shit... I'm not good at this,” he grumbles dissatisfied and plays around with the rubber band of the mask. “As far as I know, you've carried so much. And took on a lot of responsibility. But you don't have to do everything on your own. You're not alone.”
“I can't just stop...” she whispers, hands buried in her lap. “This is all I have.”
“What if you start worrying about what you need now?” says Erik, softly but insistently.
“What if I just don't have anything else?” Christine slowly straightens up. Tears sting her eyes, and she blinks several times, trying to find the words. “If I... if I have to give it all up... what's left?” her voice breaks, and she draws in a whimpering breath.

What will be left?

“Christine-”
“Just shut up!” She yells at him, her voice cutting the air, and as she turns to accuse him again, he reflexively pulls his hands up. Her mouth, a moment ago ready to shower him with her words, remains open, unable to find a single word. Her anger freezes in the air.
His hands tremble as he slowly lowers them again. A low groan escapes him as he exhales deeply.
“If... you want to blame me... It's okay, please, I can carry it,” he whispers without looking at her. His voice is almost too quiet to be heard. He tries to get some air into his lungs, but his chest feels heavy.
A strangely familiar feeling spreads through Erik's chest. His thumb glides over his fingertips. Numb. They are numb again.
“My... my purpose in this life... was to exist for my mother. It was just her and me... She needed me... and I needed her...” His voice keeps breaking off. “I had no life left without her. I was empty... After...” He fights the lump in his throat, gulping down his breath again and again, trying to block out the pain. “I... understand you,” he whispers, ”What else will be left when this one last sense disappears. That's what it's all about for you.”
Suddenly Christine's anger, her immeasurable grief, has simply disappeared.

“It's okay... if you say that the store is truly your dream. But don't do it out of a sense of duty or because you think everything will fall apart. Or that, Gustave will fall apart...” he mumbles, his voice almost soft now.
“You have no idea what it's like to have to hold everything together,” she whispers, her words barely more than a breath. One last flare-up of anger.
And Erik decides today is not the day to talk about what she wants and doesn't want. Today is also not the day to explain to her that Gustave is perfectly capable of running his store without collapsing under the weight. It's simply not the right moment.
He grunts, the sound harsh and empty, then pulls his mask back over the stump of his nose. “Let's go back,” he mumbles.
Christine is silent. The wind blows through the narrow streets, sweeps across her cheeks and dries her tears. For a moment, she is looking around for an answer that she hasn't quite found yet.
“It's not easy,” she finally murmurs, “I know...” says Erik, his voice soft.

They finally get up in silence and walk back down the path side by side.
Finally, Christine bumps her shoulder against Erik's upper arm. “Hey,” she says, her voice a little hesitant. And she waits for him to give her his attention, by glancing down at her quickly. “I don't hate you. That was... Childish,” she mumbles. He nods quietly, and a soft smile can be read from his eyes. “I know.”
“What, how?!” Christine looks at him in disbelief. “I know what it looks like to be hated,” he replies, his yellow eyes resting on her for a moment. ”You're afraid that your place, your purpose, your only meaning in life will be robbed. That's not hate.” He shrugs his shoulders as if it's the most natural thing in the world.
“It's okay to be afraid. I just wonder...“ he pauses, 'how further will fear push you, or to what extent will it slow you down...”

Christine remains silent for a moment, as if she still has to process his words. So far, fear has protected her. Carried her. Through so many situations, fear had made her strong. To persevere. To endure. Because everything can always get worse.
“That makes me feel better,” she whispers, quietly and almost thoughtfully, and decides not to go into the subject of her fear any further.
“I really like you. Even if you are a strange old bird!”
“Strange old bird?” he repeats with a hint of amusement. “You're only realizing that now? I always thought I was a hideous gargoyle!”
Christine's laughter echoes up the houses.