The alarm screamed at 6:15 a.m.
Natalie Müller's hand shot out from under her blanket and smacked the clock hard enough to rattle the nightstand. For a moment she lay still, eyes half-open, brain slowly rebooting like a stubborn computer that did not sign up for this shift in life.
Then it hit her.
Today was gallery day.
With a groan that sounded like it came from the ancient soul of someone far older than twenty-two, she forced herself upright. Her long dark hair was an explosion of curls that resembled a lion during an identity crisis. She squinted at her reflection in the wardrobe mirror.
"You look like you lost a street fight with a windstorm," she mumbled to herself.
But she smiled. This was her chaos, her morning ritual, her life — messy, imperfect, and hers.
Berlin hadn't changed.
Cold streets. Coffee that was always either spectacular or deeply disappointing. Strangers walking too fast. Strangers staring too long. Strangers bumping into her because apparently personal space was optional these days.
Natalie pulled her scarf tighter around her neck as she walked briskly down the sidewalk, camera bag bouncing against her hip. Her boots clicked on concrete, the sound oddly comforting.
The city didn't know her name, but it fueled her art — every crooked smile, every graffiti-stained wall, every patch of early sunlight filtering through winter clouds.
She snapped a picture of a pigeon staring judgmentally at her from a trash bin.
"Okay rude," she told it.
It did not apologize.
Her studio was technically a small renovated space above a bakery, but Natalie preferred to call it her kingdom. It smelled like paint, cinnamon rolls from downstairs, and faint printer ink — a strangely soothing trio that meant creativity.
Inside, half-finished paintings leaned against the walls, canvases drying, sketches scattered like fallen leaves. Her computer hummed softly beside her editing desk, where thousands of RAW files waited for her attention.
She plugged in her headphones and let music drown out the world.
The pictures she'd taken the week before—portraits of street musicians—stared back at her. She zoomed in on a violin player's hands, trembling slightly from the cold.
Her jaw tightened.
People underestimate how much humanity hides in the small things — in shaking fingers, forced smiles, the stiffness in shoulders. She loved capturing those truths. They felt more honest than words.
But today wasn't about artistry alone.
Today she had to meet with the gallery director.
Which meant speaking.
Which meant acting sociable.
Which meant convincing people she wasn't actually an introvert masquerading as a human.
She sighed dramatically at her monitor.
"Don't make weird jokes. Don't swear. Don't be… you," she reminded herself.
Then immediately contradicted that thought with a shrug.
"Actually, whatever. If they don't like the real me, they can choke."
Confidence restored, she grabbed her portfolio and headed to the door.
The lobby was full. Too full.
Natalie instantly felt the pressure of a hundred invisible spotlights. A dozen people milled around, champagne glasses in hand, chatting in the intense, performative way people do when they want to look impressive.
Her stomach knotted.
Adults acting uncool.
Her least favorite thing in the world.
She tried to slip past them unnoticed, but someone spotted her.
"Natalie! Over here!"
It was Miriam, one of the gallery assistants. A sweet woman, but… enthusiastic. Too enthusiastic.
Miriam rushed over and hugged her like they were long-lost cousins.
"You're finally here! The director is dying to see your work!"
"Dying? Like… medically?" Natalie deadpanned.
Miriam blinked. "What? No—"
"Just checking."
Natalie followed her through the bustling space.
She spotted her printed works displayed along a wall: candid portraits, city snapshots, vibrant colors next to moody monochromes. Seeing them like that always did something strange to her chest — like pride mixed with fear.
Was she good enough?
Did her art matter?
Did anyone actually see what she saw?
She shoved those thoughts away.
The gallery director, Herr Lindhoff, was a tall, thin man with a permanently skeptical expression etched onto his face. He examined her portfolio in silence for so long that Natalie started counting the dust particles on the floor to stay sane.
Finally, he spoke.
"Your work… is raw," he said.
Natalie's stomach clenched.
"And bold."
She blinked.
"You capture emotion without theatrics," he continued. "People will see themselves in these images."
"Um," Natalie said. "Thank you?"
He closed the portfoli
We'd like to offer you a permanent showcase for the spring exhibition."
Her heart slammed into her ribs.
Permanent showcase.
A dream.
Her dream.
"You're serious?" she whispered.
He gave her a rare smile. "Deadly."
She left the gallery high on adrenaline, practically bouncing down the steps. She wanted to scream, or dance, or run a marathon, or… well, no, she hated running. But something equally dramatic.
She decided to treat herself to food from her favorite street stall — pretzels the size of her face.
But when she reached for her wallet—
Her heart sank.
It wasn't there.
She checked again. And again. And again.
"No no no no no—"
She dumped out her bag right on the sidewalk. A guy passing by gave her a look like she was about to summon demons out of her belongings.
She glared back.
"Don't judge me. I've had a day," she muttered.
Her wallet remained missing.
Natalie groaned into her hands. "Of course. Of course this happens the day I succeed at something."
By the time she returned to the studio, frustration had melted into exhaustion. She flopped onto her couch, dragging a blanket over herself like a sad burrito.
Her phone buzzed.
MAMA.
Natalie considered ignoring it but sighed and answered.
"Well?" her mother demanded immediately.
"Well what?"
"How did it go, Liebling? Did the director love it? Did he faint? Did he cry? Did he—"
"Mama, relax," Natalie interrupted, rubbing her forehead. "It went well. Really well."
Her mother squealed so loudly that Natalie physically pulled the phone away from her ear.
"I knew it! I told you this would be your year!"
Natalie smiled softly. "Maybe."
"Not maybe. Definitely. I raised a talented girl."
"You raised a gremlin," Natalie corrected. "A tired gremlin."
Her mother laughed, the sound warm even through the phone.
"Get some rest. Celebrate properly tomorrow. And remember... don't let anyone dim that fire of yours."
"I won't."
When the call ended, Natalie stared at the ceiling.
Today was… good. Chaotic, exhausting, but good.