After the rain E-Book

Katrin Seifert

• Herausgeber: epubli
• Kategorie: Abenteuer, Thriller, Horror
• Sprache: Englisch

Seitenzahl: 180

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2024

Beschreibung

Clara has lost everything: her relationship with Lukas, the man she loved, and the trust she had placed in him. After she finds out that Lukas has cheated on her, her world falls apart. Amidst the pain and disappointment, Clara begins to find herself again. As Lukas fights for a second chance, Clara must decide whether she is ready to forgive him and make a fresh start.

Leseprobe

Title: After the rain

Author: Katrin Seifert

Biography:

Katrin Seifert was born in Hamburg in 1983 and grew up in a family that shared her passion for books and stories. Even as a child, she devoured novels, wrote her own poems and stories and dreamed of becoming an author herself one day. After graduating from high school, she moved to Berlin, where she studied literature and creative writing. During her studies, she gained her first experience as a freelance editor and copywriter, but her passion for writing never left her.

In 2012, Katrin Seifert published her first novel, which quickly won the hearts of readers. Her stories are characterized by profound characters, emotional depth and a mixture of romance and drama. She knows how to sensitively portray the inner conflicts of her protagonists while showing the beauty of life and love, even in the most difficult moments.

In addition to her writing activities, Katrin Seiferta passionate traveler and loves to incorporate her experiences and impressions into her books. She now lives in a small, quiet suburb of Hamburg, where she shares a cozy home with her husband and two cats. Her works are very successful in Germany and beyond and have gained a loyal readership. Her novels repeatedly deal with the themes of loss, new beginnings and the power of love - and above all, the fact that after every storm the sun can shine again.

Chapter 1: A New Beginning

Hamburg greeted Clara Wagner with a sky that looked like liquid tin. Clouds piled up on top of each other, heavy and grey, and a colder wind blew through the streets from the harbor. Clara pulled her coat tighter around herself as she stepped out of the station and the hustle and bustle of the big city settled around her. People with serious faces hurried past her, trains rattled in the distance, and a ship's horn vibrated the air. It was overwhelming and fascinating at the same time.

Clara paused for a moment, breathed in the salty air and looked at her crumpled map. She was finally here. Hamburg. The city she had wanted to visit for years, the city that was to become her new home. The thought filled her with a mixture of excitement and unease. A new beginning - that sounded so simple, but she knew it wouldn't be.

The last few months had been a real ordeal: the broken relationship with her long-time boyfriend Markus, the constant arguments with her family and the inner turmoil that hadn't left her. Hamburg was her escape, her salvation. A new chapter.

Clara pulled her old leather suitcase behind her as she made her way through the narrow streets towards her newApartment. They had found a small room in St. Georg, in a renovated old building with high ceilings and creaky wooden floors. It was nothing special, but it was her own space - a small freedom that she had worked hard for.

When she finally reached the front door and climbed the stairs, she felt exhausted but also satisfied. The apartment was sparsely furnished: a bed, a table, a shelf full of books she had brought with her. She put down her suitcase and collapsed onto the bed. The rain drummed against the windows and for a moment she felt as small as the drop that slowly ran down the window pane.

"Welcome to your life," she murmured quietly to herself, and although her voice sounded firm, she felt the loneliness in the silence of the new room.

In the evening, Clara was drawn outside. The city seemed even more alive at night. The lights of the street lamps reflected in the wet asphalt and the air smelled of rain and coffee. She had no idea where she wanted to go, but that was exactly what she liked. They let themselves drift past restaurants that weregolden light, bars with muffled laughter, and small bookstores that were still open.

Finally she found herself on the banks of the Elbe. The water was dark and turbulent, the waves crashing against the quay wall as they tried to free themselves from the narrow confines of the river. Clara leaned against the railing and let her gaze wander over the panorama: the docks, the cranes, the ships glittering like shadows on the water. There was something raw, something honest about the scenery.

At that moment she heard it for the first time - the music. A violin whose sound was so clear and painfully beautiful that it made her involuntarily hold her breath. She turned around and saw him.

The musician stands in the shadow of an old warehouse. His figure was barely recognizable, but the movement of the bow, the elegance of his posture, that was unmistakable. He was young, perhaps in his late twenties, with dark, messy hair falling over his face. His eyes were closed and his face looked as if it belonged to another place, another time.

Clara could not look away. It was as if the music was speaking directly to her soul, as if sheBringing out things that she had buried for a long time. Longing, pain, hope -everything was united in this one piece.

When he finished, there was a moment of absolute silence. Then a few coins fell into his violin case with a clatter, and the few passers-by who had stopped continued on their way. Clara stopped. They wanted to say something, but didn't know what. Finally she overcame herself and came closer.

“That was beautiful,” she said quietly.

The musician opened his eyes and looked at her. His eyes were as gray as the sky that afternoon, and they looked tired, easily hostile. "Thank you," he said briefly, without really looking at her.

Clara sensed that he didn't want to talk, but there was something about him that fascinated her. "Do you play here often?" she asked, although she immediately felt silly.

“Sometimes.” His voice was rough, quickly dismissive, and he began packing up his violin.

Clara wanted to ask more, wanted to know more, but she felt that she shouldn't press him. Instead, she watched as he took his things and disappeared into the darkness without looking back.

They were left alone, the sound of the waves in the background. Something about this encounter haunted them. Who was this man, and why did his music sound like it was heartbroken?

In the distance, seagulls howled and the rain began to fall again. Clara pulled her coat tighter around her and made her way back to her apartment. Her thoughts were on the music - and on the man who had played it.

A new beginning, she thought. Maybe it was more complicated than she had thought.

Chapter 2: Between the Lines

The next morning Clara woke up early, the pale light of a cloudy sky shining through the thin curtains of her room. She felt tired, her thoughts had wandered back to the violinist again and again during the night. His music had touched something in her that she couldn't quite grasp. A melancholy that was both familiar and strange.

Clara shook off the thoughts and forced herself to concentrate on the day. It was her first day at work at theHamburger Morgenpost, and she couldn't afford to appear unprepared. With shaking hands, she reached for a cup of coffee and went through her paperwork again.

Her arrival at the editorial office was hectic and not very cordial. Colleagues, bent over their desks with serious faces, greeted her curtly, and the editor-in-chief, a stocky man with grey hair and a permanently stressed expression, had only a few minutes for her.

“Ms Wagner, it’s good that you’re here. We need fresh voices, especially in the cultural sector. Your first task: write a report about thestreet artists of the city. And remember, we want emotions. Stories that grab our readers."

Clara nodded eagerly, although she felt taken by surprise. They had hoped to be given time to get used to things. But this was obviously not Job's art, where you were gently led by the hand.

In the afternoon she set out with a notebook and her camera to find the street artists of Hamburg. But despite the lively city, she didn't find what she was looking for. Many musicians play the same songs, always with an eye on the coins in their hats. Some seemed so tired and routine that Clara could hardly imagine that her readers would be interested in them.

Her thoughts returned to the violinist from last night. His playing had a depth that she could not forget. He had to be part of her report. But how was she supposed to find him? All they knew was that he had played somewhere near the harbor.

In the evening, as the sky grew darker, she was drawn to the banks of the Elbe again. It was an unconscious urge,quickly as if something was calling to her. The wind was sharp and carried the smell of salt and seaweed, the lights of the cranes reflected in the water.

And then she heard him again.

The melody was different from the previous evening, but it was just as captivating. Clara followed the sound until she found him again - he was standing under a street lamp, the beam of light framing him like a stage. The violin rested gently on his shoulder, the bow gliding over the strings as if it were an extension of his arms.

Clara stood at a distance, her eyes fixed on him as her heart beat faster. He was so different from the other street musicians. No signs, no asking for money, just the music that seemed to come directly from him.

As the last notes faded away, she gathered her courage and stepped closer.

"You again," he said, without looking directly at her. His voice sounded the same as it had the night before -rough, quickly becoming grumpy.

"Yes," Clara answered, unsure whether she should stay or apologize and leave. But she forced herself to stop. "I'm writing for a newspaper. We're doing a report on street artists. I wouldwould like to write about you."

He raised an eyebrow and looked at her skeptically. "Street performer? Is that all I am to you?"

His words hit Clara unexpectedly hard. "No, I don't mean that. Her music... it's different. It touched people. That's a story I want to tell."

He was silent for a moment, and Clara had the feeling that he was weighing her every sentence, searching for unspoken motives. Finally he said: "I'm not playing for the newspaper. I'm playing for myself."

Clara was disappointed, but she understood that he had set boundaries. "I respect that. But... may I at least know your name?"

He hesitated. "Lukas. Lukas Faber."

"Clara Wagner," she introduced herself and held out her hand. But he didn't shake it; instead, he packed up his violin and turned to leave.

“Perhaps we’ll see each other again, Mrs. Wagner,” he said without turning around.

Clara was left alone, the wind blew through her hair, and an inexplicable longing spread through herchest. Something about Lukas fascinated her, and she knew she wouldn't forget him so easily.

Later in her apartment, she sat in front of her laptop and stared at the blinking cursor. She had conducted interviews with other street artists, had taken notes on their stories. But none of it felt alive, nothing could capture what she had heard in Lukas' music.

They thought of his eyes - those tired, gray eyes that seemed to say more than he could say. Who was War? What was behind his forbidding facade?

Clara began to write. Not about street artists in general, but about Lukas. About the melancholy in his music, the art of how he seemed to play, as if he was telling a story with every note. She wrote until the night was over, and when she finally stopped, she felt exhausted, but also relieved.

Lukas was more than a street artist. And Clara knew that she had to see him again if she wanted to understand who he really was – and why his musichad touched me so deeply.

Chapter 3: The First Spark

The next day began as the last one ended - with thoughts of Lukas. Clara couldn't concentrate, neither on the conversations with her colleagues nor on the new tasks that landed on her desk. His face, his music, his withdrawn expression - all of it was like a song repeating in her head.

That afternoon, she decided that she would not find any answers within the grey walls of the newsroom. She took her camera, notepad and coat and set off again for the port.

The streets were as lively as ever, but Clara felt like she was in another world. The seagulls were screeching and the heavy noises of the cranes and trucks seemed like background noise. She walked along the path where she had met Lukas the night before. But the square was empty, only the faint smell of salt and diesel hung in the air.

Clara was disappointed, but she did not let herself be discouraged. They asked a few street vendors if they had seen a violinist, a young man with dark hair. Some shook their heads, others gave vague hints that he sometimes played here, sometimes there.

After hours of searching, she felt tired and frustrated. They sat down on a bench right by the water and let their gaze wander over the waves. Was it that she was so drawn to Lukas? It wasn't just the music - it was the art of how he played it, as if he was fighting an invisible enemy with every note.

She wanted to understand him. Maybe she also wanted to find something in him that she was looking for in herself - a piece of hope, a way to deal with her own unrest.

The sun had already set and Clara was thinking of giving up and going home when she heard music again. It was not a violin but a piano coming from an open bar. The sound attracted her and she followed it until she reached a small bar calledAlte Speicherstood.

Inside, it was warm and cozy, with low ceilings and a mix of tourists and locals sitting at wooden tables. At the end of the room is a small piano, and next to it - to their surprise - is Lukas.

He did not play, but sat with a group ofPeople together, a beer glass in front of him, his violin case leaning against the wall. He seemed different than in the darkness of the streets - more relaxed, quick, as if he could relax a little here. But there was still something reserved in his gaze, an invisible barrier.

Clara hesitated. Should she speak to him? Would he feel it? But before she could make a decision, he raised his head and looked straight at her. For a moment he seemed surprised, then a faint smile crossed his face.

"Have you been following me?" he asked as she approached. His voice sounds slightly amused, but also suspicious.

"Coincidence," Clara answered, even though she knew it wasn't quite the truth. She pointed to the piano. "I heard the music."

Lukas nodded and pointed to the empty seat next to him. Clara sat down and for a moment neither of them knew what to say.

“This isn’t your usual territory, is it?” she finally asked, breaking the silence.

"I play here sometimes when I've had enough of the streets," he replied, shrugging his shoulders. "The people are nice and the landlord lets me drink for free."

Clara laughed quietly. “That sounds fair.”

They talk for a while about the bar, about the city, about the music. Clara felt Lukas slowly thawing out, even though he still seemed cautious. It was as if he had learned to look at the world from a distance in order to protect himself.

Finally, she asked, "Why do you play on the street? You are good enough to play in concert halls."

Lukas' face darkened. He looked at her for a long time before answering. "Maybe because I don't belong in concert halls. The street is more honest. No false expectations, no masks."

Clara sensed that there was a deeper truth behind these words, a story he was not ready to tell. They wanted to ask further questions, but decided against it.

Later that evening, as the guests slowly left and the bar emptied, Lukas took out his violin. Clara watched him tune the strings, check the bow. It was as if he was completely lost in himself in those moments, forgetting the world around him.

Then he started playing.

The melody was quiet and full of yearning, a song that spoke of loss and hope without needing a single word. Clara was surprised to feel tears welling up in her eyes and she quickly wiped them away before anyone could notice.

When Lukas had finished, he looked at her, and this time his gaze was softer, more open. "Music is all I have," he said quietly, quickly to himself.

Clara felt that she had finally gotten a small insight into his world, but she also knew that she had only scratched the surface.

"You should let more people hear your music," she finally said. "It would be a waste if you didn't."

Lukas shrugged. "Maybe. Maybe not."

He stood up, packed up his violin and said goodbye. "Thank you for being a part of it, Clara Wagner."

She watched him disappear into the night and felt that she would see him again. And deep down she knew that it wasn't just the music that drew her to him. It was the spark that was in him.burned – and which she wanted to find again within herself.

Chapter 4: Breaking the Walls

In the days that followed, Clara kept returning to the harbor and the small bars in the area. It wasn't just because of her report - it was Lukas who attracted her like a moth to a flame. Every encounter with him left her with more questions than she had, but that was precisely what made him so fascinating to her.

Her report grows slowly. Clara spoke to other street artists, collected stories, but in her heart she knew that Lukas was the key. His music, his silence, the heaviness that surrounded him - he was more than a musician. He was a puzzle that she was determined to solve.

It was a rainy Thursday evening when she found him again. This time he wasn't playing at the harbor or in a bar, but in a quiet park, under an old tree whose branches stretched over him like a protective roof.

Clara stopped and watched him from a distance. The rain drummed softly on the leaves, and Lukas played as if he were alone in the world. His melody was dark and full of pain, as if it was touching something deep inside.to bring out something that he normally kept hidden.

After a while, she dared to come closer. They sat down on a bench just a few meters away from him and waited until he finished.

"You really do appear everywhere, don't you?" asked Lukas, without looking at her. His voice didn't sound unfriendly, but rather resigned.

“Maybe I’m just good at finding special places,” Clara replied, smiling slightly.

Lukas put his violin in the case and closed the lid before taking it. "What do you really want, Clara?" You say you're writing a report, but I have the feeling that it's not just about that."

His words struck her like a blow because they were true. Clara knew it was more than that. Her search for him had become not a professional duty but a personal obsession.

"I don't know," she admitted honestly. "Maybe... maybe I'll just understand why your music is so different. Why it says so much without words."

Lukas leaned against the tree and folded his arms in front of his chest. "Music is the only way I... how I can feel without breaking down."

Clara wanted to ask, but she felt that she could not press him. Instead, she remained silent, and for a moment they simply stood there while the rain gradually subsided.

"If you want to know something, ask the right questions," Lukas said suddenly. His voice sounded softer now, quickly challenging.

Clara thought about it. "Why do you only play on the street? Why not on a stage, in front of a larger audience?"

Lukas hesitated before answering. "Because the street is honest. On the stage, people expect perfection. They want entertainment, not truth. The street... it forgives you for your mistakes. They demand nothing but what you really are."

Clara nodded slowly. "But what brought you there?" You have talent, everyone can see that. What took you away from the stage?"

For a moment it looked as if Lukas was going to shut himself down, but then he took a deep breath. "I was on stage. I used to. I gave everything - my time, my energy, my soul. But it was never enough. Not for her."

“For whom?” Clara asked cautiously.

His gaze hardened and he shook his head. "For no one. Forget it."

Clara felt that she had hit a sore spot. She didn't want to push him, but she couldn't deny that she wanted to know what lay behind his facade.