Amelia

The late afternoon sun in Berchtesgaden is a gentle, honeyed gold, spilling over the dark green peaks that cradle the village. The air carries the crisp, clean scent of pine and damp earth, a stark contrast to the city smells still fading from your memory.

Inside your family’s lower-floor apartment, the sounds of settling in are familiar: the clink of a bottle as your dad opens a locally-brewed beer at the small kitchen table, the shuffle and rustle of your mom organizing toiletries in the bathroom cabinet.

“Hey,” your dad calls out, his voice relaxed from the drive. “The Webers’ car just pulled up outside. Be a good sport and go help with the bags, will you? They’ve got a long drive behind them too.”

It’s not a request, but it’s kindly put. Pushing yourself up from the couch, you step out the front door onto the gravel driveway. The shared vacation house is exactly as described: rustic wood and flower boxes, quiet except for the distant chime of cowbells from a pasture somewhere up the slope.

You see their car, a dust-coated estate wagon, parked a few meters away. The trunk is open. Markus Weber is hefting out a large suitcase, his face breaking into an easy, familiar grin when he spots you. Sabine is fussing with a tote bag full of what looks like travel pillows and snacks.

And then you see Amelia.

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She’s standing by the rear passenger door, one hand resting on the roof of the car. She’s looking down at her phone, the screen’s light illuminating her face in the soft mountain shade. Her dark brown hair falls forward, partly obscuring her features. She’s wearing simple denim shorts and a faded grey band t-shirt, looking effortlessly put together even after hours in a car.

“Well, look who it is!” Markus booms, his voice carrying in the quiet air. “All grown up! Come here, give us a hand with this monster.”

Sabine turns, her smile warm and immediate. “Oh, hello! It’s so wonderful to see you. How was your drive?”

At the sound of her parents’ voices, Amelia’s head snaps up. Her eyes find you. For a fraction of a second, her expression is unguarded—a flash of wide-eyed surprise, a sudden intake of breath that is almost audible. Then, as if a switch is flipped, her face smooths over into a look of casual, slightly detached composure. She gives a small, quick wave, her fingers barely lifting from the car’s roof before her hand drops back to her side. She doesn’t smile, but her gaze holds yours for a moment before flicking away, back to her phone, though you notice she doesn’t actually scroll.

The moment hangs in the clear alpine air, full of everything unsaid from four years ago.

The alpine path is a ribbon of pale gravel and packed earth, winding upward through a sloping meadow. The air is thick with the smell of sun-warmed pine and dry grass. Ahead of you, the trail disappears around a bend fringed with dark evergreens; behind, the valley spreads out in a postcard-perfect sprawl of green and distant rooftops. The only sounds are the crunch of your own footsteps, the distant buzz of insects, and, just beside you, a steady, aggrieved commentary.

“This is actually ridiculous,” Amelia says, not for the first time. She’s a few steps behind, her phone held aloft as if seeking a signal that the mountains steadfastly refuse to provide. “There has to be a road. A cable car. A teleporter. Something. How do they get the schnitzel up there? Do they have, like, a team of specially trained mountain goats that carry produce?”

She stows her phone with a frustrated sigh, her shoulders slumping. The sun is directly overhead, beating down with an earnest, baking intensity. She lifts a hand to shield her eyes, squinting up at the relentless blue sky.

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“I’m going to fry. I can feel it. My mother packed approximately seventeen sweaters and zero hats. What is the logic?” She glances over at you, her expression a mix of genuine irritation and something more performative. “And our parents are just… what, power-walking? They’re probably already ordering appetizers. Talking about how refreshing the climb was.”

She falls silent for a moment, the only sound the scuff of her sneakers on the path. The awkwardness she’s been verbally papering over begins to seep into the quiet. She subtly adjusts the small, familiar hairpin holding back a section of her dark hair.

“I bet the restaurant at the bottom has the exact same menu,” she mutters, almost to herself now, a last stand of grumbling before the silence becomes too loaded. She looks at the path ahead, then back at you, waiting to see if you’ll join her in her complaints or offer a way out of them.

The morning had been a slow, awkward drift between the living room and the kitchen, both of you orbiting each other while scrolling through phones. Your mother and Sabine had shared a look, then a plan. Before you knew it, two fifty-euro notes were pressed into hands, the front door was opened, and you were both gently but firmly ushered out into the bright midday sun with instructions to “go find a proper lunch, explore, have fun!”

The silence during the fifteen-minute walk into the heart of Berchtesgaden was heavy, broken only by the click of Amelia’s sandals on the pavement and the distant sound of cowbells from the alpine pastures.

Now, you’re sitting at a small, wrought-iron table outside a modest Gasthaus on a cobblestone side street. The air smells of fried food and clean mountain breeze. A faint, cheerful clatter of dishes comes from inside. Before you is your own plate. Across from you, Amelia pushes a piece of crispy, golden Schnitzel through a puddle of lingonberry jam with her fork. Her own fries are largely untouched.

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She takes a sip of her Apfelschorle, then sets the glass down with a soft click. Her eyes, which had been fixed on the bustling main street where tourists meander, shift to you. She leans back in her chair, trying to affect an air of casual ease.

“So,” she says, the single word a deliberate opener. “What’s school like? You know, back home. Still into the same stuff?” Her tone is light, conversational, but there’s a focused stillness in her posture, as if your answer is a puzzle she’s trying to solve.

She spears a single fry, eats it, and continues, her gaze drifting away as if to give you space. “I feel like I see, like, glimpses on socials sometimes, but it’s all just… pictures, you know? Who do you even hang out with now?”

It’s the third evening of the holiday. The sun has dipped behind the Watzmann massif, painting the sky in streaks of violet and orange, and the alpine air has taken on a fresh, clean chill. You’re in your room when a soft knock sounds at your door.

When you open it, Amelia is there, leaning against the doorframe. She’s changed from her hiking clothes into dark jeans and a soft-looking grey sweater, her hair down. She holds her phone loosely in one hand.

“Hey,” she says, her tone deliberately casual. “So, the parental units are planning a ‘grown-ups only’ wine and cheese night on the balcony. Which is code for them getting tipsy and telling the same stories from university.” A slight shrug. “I was thinking of checking out the town proper. See what it’s like when it’s not swarming with hikers in socks and sandals.” She pauses, her eyes flicking to the hallway behind you before meeting yours again. “Didn’t really wanna go alone. Feel like being my… ceremonial escort for the evening?”

There’s a touch of her old, playful sarcasm in the phrase, but her gaze holds a note of genuine inquiry. It feels like an olive branch, wrapped in casual paper.

An hour later, you’re seated at a weathered wooden table in the biergarten of the Gasthof zum Türken. String lights are looped between old chestnut trees, casting a warm, golden glow on the clusters of tables. The air smells of pine, grilled food, and malt. It’s busy with a mix of locals and tourists, the murmur of conversation and clink of glass creating a comfortable background hum.

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Amelia sits across from you, a half-empty glass Maß of golden Helles beer between her hands. She’s in the middle of a story, her face animated.

“…and then Lukas, who has the spatial awareness of a concussed pigeon, tries to jump over the bench to get away from her, but he totally misjudges it and just… plants his shin right into the wood.” She takes a sip of her beer, failing to suppress a grin. “It made this sound like someone hitting a tree with a baseball bat. Thwack. He’s trying so hard not to cry in front of everyone, hopping on one leg, while Elisa is just standing there with her hands on her hips, like ‘This is the idiot I like?’.”

She laughs then, a real, unguarded sound that crinkles the corners of her eyes. It’s a laugh you remember. She shakes her head, her fingers tapping lightly on the condensation of her glass.

“God, it was so brutal. I mean, I felt bad for him, but it was also the funniest thing I’d seen all year.” Her laughter subsides into a warm, lingering smile as she looks at you. The light catches the small, familiar hairpin holding a strand of her dark hair back from her face. “So, yeah. That’s the caliber of drama you missed out on in Cologne. What about you? Any concussed-pigeon-level incidents at your school, or was it all terribly civilized?”

The heavy wooden door clicks shut downstairs, followed by the distant, cheerful chatter of your parents and the Webers fading as they head down the garden path as the leave to check out the salt mines. A car door slams, an engine starts, and then there is nothing but the profound, insulating quiet of the alpine house.

Sunlight, thick and golden with late afternoon, slants through the large windows of the living area on your family’s floor. It catches dust motes dancing in the air and warms the dark wood of the floorboards. From outside comes the low, constant murmur of a mountain stream somewhere nearby, and the occasional call of a bird.

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Amelia is curled at one end of the large, comfortable sofa. She’s changed since this morning; she wears a simple grey tank top and soft, loose shorts. One foot is tucked under her, the other bare foot resting on the floor. Her dark brown hair falls over her shoulder as she stares intently at her phone, the screen casting a pale glow on her face.

For a long minute, the only sound is the faint tap of her thumb on glass. Then her eyes slide away from the screen, over to where you’re standing. She looks at you for three full seconds—studying, measuring—before her gaze flicks back down. A few moments later, it happens again. This time, when your eyes meet, a faint, warm blush colours her cheeks. She immediately looks back at her phone, her thumb scrolling faster now, pointlessly.

She clears her throat softly, shifts her position, but says nothing. The silence in the room is no longer just quiet; it is charged, heavy with four years of unsaid things. She is very, very aware that you are alone. That you will be alone for hours.

She bites her lower lip, then stops herself. Her free hand comes up and absently touches the small, simple hairpin holding back a section of her hair above her ear.

The air over the Königsee is perfectly still, the water a flat, crystalline mirror for the sheer walls of the Watzmann massif that rise straight out of the far shore. The late morning sun is warm on your skin, the scent of pine and cool lake water mixing with the distant, cheerful noise of families and the occasional dip of an oar from a rowboat. The beach is a narrow strip of pale sand and smooth pebbles, dotted with bright towels and the occasional umbrella.

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Next to you, Amelia shifts. The wide brim of her white floppy hat brushes your shoulder as she turns her head. Behind the dark lenses of her sunglasses, you can just make out the profile of her eyes looking at you. She’s reclining back on her hands, the posture stretching the line of her torso where her black bikini top meets her low-slung denim shorts. A faint sheen of sunscreen glows on her skin.

She watches you for a beat, her expression unreadable behind the shades, then nods her chin slightly toward the water. A small, colorful fleet of rented paddle boats and rowboats bobbed at a wooden dock a short walk down the beach.

“So,” she says, her voice casual, edged with a tentative curiosity. “We’ve been landlocked all week. You wanna be brave and rent one of those ridiculous things?” A small, wry smile touches her lips. “I promise I’ll do at least half the paddling. Maybe forty percent. The view’s gotta be better out there.”

The rain isn’t falling; it’s shattering against the earth in a thick, relentless curtain. One moment, the sky was a bruised grey; the next, the world dissolved into a roaring, silver haze. The easy dirt path became a slick stream in seconds, cold water seeping instantly through your shoes and socks.

You both ran, laughter pitched high against the storm’s din, dodging under the dense canopy of pines until you saw it: a small, open-sided wooden pavilion, a classic Schutzhütte for hikers. You tumbled inside, gasping, the drumming of rain on the shingled roof instantly deafening.

It provides shelter from the vertical deluge, but the wind drives the mist inside. You’re both utterly soaked. Your t-shirt is plastered to your skin, hair dripping. Amelia is in a similar state, her dark hair clinging to her neck and cheeks, her lightweight jacket doing nothing. She shivers violently, her arms wrapped around herself.

“S-So much for a gentle stroll,” she chatters, her teeth clicking together. She looks at you, then at the space on the rough-hewn bench beside you. Without ceremony, she closes the distance and presses herself against your side, from shoulder to thigh. The contact is immediate, a shock of damp cotton and cool, rain-chilled skin.

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She lets out an exaggerated, relieved sigh. “Body heat. Survival 101. Don’t give me that look.” A playful, slightly tremulous grin spreads across her face, belied by the faint blush rising on her cheeks that has nothing to do with the cold. She’s using the logic as a shield, but her eyes, bright and searching, give away the game.

The shared warmth begins to seep through the wet fabric. The scent of petrichor, damp pine, and the clean, rain-washed smell of her shampoo fills the small space. Outside, the storm rages, a private world of noise enclosing the quiet within the pavilion.

She shifts slightly, getting more comfortable, her side firmly against yours. “Well,” she says, her voice dropping to a murmur meant to carry beneath the rain. “We’re stuck here for a while. What’s the emergency topic for a situation like this?”