A/N: I speak no German. If the German is not used correctly in this story (such as words in the wrong place) I sincerely apologize. I was using a translator-machine.

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The books are quite dusty. It is hard for me to breath in the overwhelming layer of abandonment and sorrow, caked in the soft dirt of time .

"You see, Herr Tom, it's not in such good condition, but my lord, what can I do? So hard, after the war..."

Frau Danziger walks about the store with a frown. She is a tall woman, thin, and tired all the time. Her light brown eyes have seen better times, and I believe she was once part of the elite, but no more.

I nod, "I assure you, Frau, I can take care of it. It can be a perfect studio, and perhaps even a book store again. But I can certainly use it."

Frau Danziger smiles at me, but her smile is as worn and sad as her body, "You are willing to pay me for this?"

"Yes. At least a hundred marks."

Here her eyes widen, and she smiles even harder; which is highly unappealing on her. "Good, Herr Tom. Then I give this to you. As my gift."

I pay her on the spot. I had been remarkably lucky that no one had tried to rob me. The streets are strewn with thieves, who have nothing but their skills; and even those have been rusted with sorrow.

She laughs like the hag that she is, and leaves me as the sun sets. There is no electricity in the building, but there was once. I light several candles and make myself comfortable. I look no different than any other homeless on the streets of Berlin, sleeping wherever I find myself; be it a book store or a bar.

I do not wake up for a long time into the morning. My dreams are filled with memories, but I forget them in the light of day, such is my blessing and curse. My first task is to dust the books.

Within this task I find a multitude of treasure. So many paperbacks lined with age and stained with water. When I see them, I grow sad. Who will remember me when I have passed? Disappeared? Simply ceased to exist?

Is there no marking of human life save for the accomplishments that change the world? If I were to be remembered by one small soul, I would be happy.

The day drags on as I rearrange. Again, I sleep in the dust and the memories.

On the second week of my stay in Berlin, I find a boy. He walks in at night just as simply as any man would into his house. I stare at him in surprise as he lays down next to me. "Kann ich?" he asks in a soft voice.

I nod. "Ich bedenke nicht. Ich werde Sie sprechen Englisch machen?"

"Yes. Are you an Englishman?"

"Yes, I am."

"I see."

After that there is no more talk. I watch him as he falls asleep. I do not mind, so much, that he is in my new studio. If this is the one soul that will remember me.

He stays with me. For a week, and says nothing. His eyes watch me as I re-shelve books and begin my painting. I don't know what to draw. I have finished the base, and it sits there and stares at me, begging me to grace it in some way.

If only I could grace it! If only I had a talent so great as that I could create a masterpiece. The store is less dusty now, and almost looks presentable. I will not open it to the public, of course. I have no money to do that.

"What's your name, boy?" I ask him as I stare at the light blue canvas before me.

"Conrad. What are you going to paint?"

"I don't know."

"Paint me."

I look at him curiously. He's small for his age, or maybe his age is less than I suppose it to be. His hair is wild and messy, and his eyes seem a bit off center. He is no classical figure, to be sure, but he has a charm about him. He has been useful to me, in my efforts.

"Alright. Sit down." I go and find my brushes, and my paints. He's sitting on a box full of books I have yet to shelve. I realize that by creating an orderly bookstore, I am probably inviting a break in. But I don't mind, I'm not here to sell books, they mean nothing to me.

He's very quiet as I paint. I finish by the end of the day, happy with my work. He looks at it curiously, "I like it. It makes me look older."

"Why did you want me to paint you?" I set my brush down and begin to ignite the gas lights.

He looks out the window at the cold street where the hungry and homeless roam. "Because if I'm not immortalized some way, everyone will forget about me."

At this I smile. We are not so different. We long for eternity, and I fear neither of us will receive it.