The Black Castle in My Hand: A Story from Cologne, Germany
Today is another slow day. The fever is still here. It is like an unwanted guest in my body. It makes my bones feel old. It makes my head feel full of cotton. My world is my bed, my pillow, and my blanket. I do not want to watch TV. The sounds are too loud. I do not want to read a book. The words are too blurry. So, I reach for my box of treasures. My box of postcards. It is my magic box. It can take me anywhere in the world, without moving my tired body. My fingers move past sunny beaches. They move past colorful flowers. Then they stop. They touch a postcard that is dark and serious. It is not a happy picture. It is a powerful picture. In the picture, there is a giant building. It looks like a black castle from a fairy tale. It has two tall, pointy towers. They are like two giant fingers pointing up to the sky. The whole building is covered in details. So many lines, and windows, and little statues. It looks like it is made of black lace. The castle is so big. It is bigger than all t...