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A man arrived at the seaport in Hamburg, Germany. He came aboard the cheapest ticket, wearing tattered clothes, his skin weathered and hardened by years of exposure to harsh elements. The man wandered the streets, observing the buildings and bustling life with eyes both weary and curious. Though much had changed, fragments of the past lingered, guiding him with a familiar sense of direction as he navigated old paths to familiar places. Germany had transformed in his absence. New buildings stood tall, trends among women had shifted subtly, and the trees had grown older and grander. The man yearned to learn about everything that had happened during his long absence. But the road to Poland was long. One day, in Warsaw, Frank heard a knock at the door. When he opened it, he saw a thin, frail man standing before him. Though aged and worn, the man’s face carried a haunting familiarity. It was like seeing a ghost. A ghost that had never truly been dead. It was his father. The