There they were: benches, pigeons, the worn stones of the walk and the miraculous wall. He remembered all things wrong now; the orderly cards on file in his head irreversibly shuffled, but still knew this place – not because of all the hours here, but because the wall was a kindred soul.

Like him, it was alone. It persisted, impossibly poised, having miraculously survived the American bombs and Soviet shells that felled its companions. It only continued to exist because there was nothing else for it to do, a nuisance to be wished away as someone else’s problem.

He sat – on a Monday, the third bench from the corner – to wait. The wind rose; he pulled his coat close, wondered why it was terrycloth.

A stranger exited a cab and approached, familiar and foreign. He tried to match the face to a remembered file photo. Stasi?

“Papa, come.â€? Whoever he was, his German was excellent.

“I am meeting someone. Please go,” he replied curtly.

“Papa, they are waiting at the home. You shouldn’t do this.”