We arrivedcarrying time like a folded paper icon,creased at the cornersby belief.Four nights—a small arithmeticof certainty,arrival and departurestapled togetheras if the skyhad agreedto be reasonable.The earth spoke first.Black ice—the quietest refusal—a clear syllableunder the wheels.Metal birdslowered their heads.Dates loosened.Berlin did not checkwhat we’d booked.The word strandedsounded theatricaluntil it entered the body,until cold taught itwhere to…