Dahlia has never been one for the dramatics. She kept to herself, kept quiet, tried not to rock the boat, and when she did that, everything seemed to be…calmer. 
Or, perhaps calm is the wrong word. The word she may be looking for is ‘trepidation’ 
Yes…yes that seemed right. To know that something bad has happened…that is will happen again, and yet, there was nothing to be done to solve it. So, all that is left is to be calm. 

Dahlia can’t entirely remember when she last arrived in Berlin. Was a year ago? A few months? Maybe only a few weeks. Time seemed to move so odd around here, everything and everyone moving in a monotonous manner, the bloodshed too much for the human spirit to push through. 
The young woman had come from France, carrying what little she could, hoping for a better life, and now? Well, it is like she is trapped in another prison, a place that drains the life from a person. 

Stepping out into the street, Dahlia sighs softly, the air dead, the area empty. She wondered if there was a day that Berlin had joy, had hope…although if there was, it was long ago, the memories of jubilation extinguished from the inhabitants. 

Dahlia exhales softly, taking out a lighter, flicking it a few times before the metal finally lights a spark. Nighttime is nearly fallen, the breeze slow, as if in mourning. Dahlia watches the flame, the orange wisps dancing in the near darkness. She should go inside. Up the states, to her room, where safety is promised. 
But even through fear of darkness, she couldn’t just leave the streets like this. What could she do though? Nothing. 

Like most people who aren’t fighting, Dahlia listens to the radio, reads the news, hoping for any sign of change, but it seems as though the aspiration for better days is dwindling. 

Dahlia closes her eyes, letting the breeze overtake her once more before she stands, closing her lighter, and with the last rays of the sun, she turns on her heel and walks into the building. 

It was a small shop, and had definitely seen better days. It held all forms of contraptions and candies, and Dahlias favored item, coffee beans.
Although the wood was slowly fading from the earthy brown, and the gold and green accents on the shudders and walls seemed to stall, Dahlia adored this place. 

When she first arrived to Berlin, the owner of ‘Schmuck und Süßigkeiten’ offered her a job. She didn’t know why, perhaps he took pity on her, or simply really needed the help. Dahlia didn’t care for the reason, she was just grateful. Above the shop, the previously mentioned owner, Carl, gave her a place to sleep. A small room in the attic, and Dahlia loves it. 
It was hers. Her own space. 

So, she worked as a floor girl, occasionally running errands for Carl, whose health had seen better days. 

Dahlia walks up the stairs after locking up, making sure not to wake Carl as she changes into her night clothes, her eyes drifting to the town out her window. A candle illuminated the room, it was always on at night, for Dahlia refuses to be in the dark. 

She glances to the newspaper on the ground, one from a good long while ago about a plane crash. It was so…melancholy, to think about. But life was melancholy, now more than ever. 
Something was happening, something more than war, Dahlia could feel it…and she didn’t know what to think.