[ WP ] While driving in the Autobahn , a man is instantly killed by a Geister Fahrer . However , the person who murdered him survives the impact . The victim becomes a voice in the survivor 's mind .

Lukas' maroon Porsche 911 turbo glides effortlessly down the road. The drab sea of Ford Sierras, VW Golfs, and BMW 318s part like the Red Sea before Moses. The air cradles the car, hugs the fat rear spoiler. 6th gear, 200 kph. 90 km to the Brandenburg Gate says the road sign. 
 
 The car's mobile phone rings, he picks up. His wife calls, asking him to buy milk and a few other things. 
 
 `` Ca n't the maid get it?'' 
 
 `` I've sent her home already.'' 
 
 `` Fine. I'll be home soon.'' He hangs up as an AMG Mercedes politely edges out of his way. The Porsche creeps to 210 kph. They're nearing Berlin and that'll be the end of the unlimited section. He keeps his foot down. 
 
 Karin pulls out of the massive parking garage in the lacquer black Mercedes Benz 230. Anachronistic is the old car, and anachronistic is the driver. She and her late husband bought their apartment for pennies on the dollar in the'60s and remained steadfastly so even as walls fell and buildings rose around them. They scrimped and saved - what was n't broken remained. `` They do n't make them like they used to'', she often remarked. Now in her seventies, the kids begged her to give up driving and take the U-Bahn. They pointed to the scrapes, the scuffs, and the dents, but she refused to give up her car. It worked perfectly and it was a perfectly safe car. Besides, she could n't find anybody who treated the car as it deserved. Just speculators who'd ship it to Japan or America and they could go to hell. 
 
 Autobahn construction disorients her as much as the taxi driver behind her, leaning on his horn. How rude, she thinks. She never liked driving, only taking it up after her husband promised her the black Mercedes she so badly wanted. The man in the vest points hard, as if to gesture, and suddenly turns away to shout at the digger pilot behind him. She drives off, oblivious to the man waving frantically in her rear mirror. 
 
 Perhaps if Lukas glanced right, he could have noticed the sea of brake lights, the tires screeching, and the hasty lane changes. By the time he sees the black Mercedes it is too late. It angrily swerves around a lone Ford Escort to stare down at the Porsche. The brake pedal pulses as the speedometer drops exponentially, but not quickly enough. The massive Benz crumples the Porsche like an empty drink can under a boot, killing Lukas instantly. Traffic scatters around the crumpled wrecks wrapped against the Armco barriers as sirens blare in the distance. 
 
 It takes an ADAC truck five minutes to arrive and another forty to recover half a Porsche and some shrapnel. The Mercedes is not badly damaged, just a few crumpled panels. It is promptly repaired and sold off to a collector in Tokyo. The doctors never told Karin about Lukas' fate, only doing so in hushed whispers to the children who quickly plan to send her to a nursing home, preferably one in Berlin. `` Is n't Berlin nice? It's where you've always wanted to live'', they suggested. 
 
 The voices began six months later. It was n't a voice she heard before. It was n't her son. It was n't her husband. It was n't sad. It was n't happy. Peeved, yes, but otherwise calm. No, it listed the same four items over and over again, asking them to be dropped inside the Brandenburg Gate to the girl in with the cappuccino hair. 
 
 * Milk ( that you say makes me fat but I drink anyway ) 
 * A Baguette ( because your shithead brother is visiting and you always give him the good cheese ) 
 * Cough drops ( because you never bring a coat when I tell you to ) 
 * Oranges ( that never go on sale but taste so good anyways ) 
 
 It is the only way the voice stops. Every morning she stops at the French grocer and picks up the four items. He, always smiling, asks if that will be all and she nods - in agreement with the voice. The orders never change. It develops into her routine: she buys the groceries, he loads them into her shopping bag, and they part ways. She arrives every morning at the Brandenburg Gate, groceries in hand, and she sits on the benches inside, waiting for somebody who will never arrive. There is no girl. Karin figured that out pretty quickly, but the voice kept asking and besides, what else did she have to do? 
 
 Ten years have passed since the accident and she is old and withered. As Berlin lives, breathes, and dies around her, there is Karin, clutching the red bag of groceries, waiting. The children and doctors have long since assumed she has advanced dementia and the caretaker stays a little longer every day. The apartment and the car are long gone and, with time, her mobility. She can not remember a time before the nursing home any more. 
 
 But that does not stop her, as every day up until her very last, inside the Brandenburg Gate, she waits for somebody who will never arrive. 
 
 
 
 
 
 

