What you're about to hear is based on actual events.

Listener discretion is advised.

The chill in the air is terrible, so that Berg must make a mummy of himself as he walks

through the streets.

Every dawn February in Düsseldorf should be luminescent, he thinks.

But nothing seems to shine anymore.

Even the snow seems dead, dulled as it is by the noxious smoke of the motor cars and

taxis and trucks that seem to have thickened every roadside in the city since his childhood.

There's hardly room to move in this city anymore.

He thinks.

Much less breath.

He tries to adjust his glasses against the chimney pipe he's made of the front of his jacket.

The glass discs are almost completely foggy now, and he has to hold his head at a foolish,

drunken angle as he walks.

It is only because of this that he finds the body.

It is not the fact that the woman is laying on the ground that peaks his interest, nor

as it even the terribly uncomfortable position in which he's positioned.

But rather the pale hand that's partially buried in snow.

He sighs and stops, knowing without a second glance the woman is dead.

The first look shows him the half-lit-ed opaque eyes and the eyebrows and forehead covered

with a light dusting of snow.

About 200 meters away are the doors to his office, the city morgue, where he works as

...