Regensburg was the kind of city that seemed made for children. Cobblestone streets twisted like secret paths, the Danube shimmered beneath stone bridges, and every square had a bakery where the smell of fresh bread drifted out into the air. To Madeleine von Braun , it was home — a place where the rhythm of her childhood was as steady as the bells from the cathedral.
The Von Brauns lived just a few streets away from the Yıldız family in rich neighborhood. Their windows looked out over the same playground, their children went to the same kindergarten, and by the time Madeleine was old enough to remember, Kenan Yıldız was already part of her life.
The first real memory she had of him was one of those warm afternoons when their parents gathered in the backyard for a barbecue. The men stood around the grill, debating football, while the women laid out salads and fresh bread. Madeleine, five years old with tangled blonde braids, had been sulking because none of her dolls would sit properly on the blanket she'd set out.
And then Kenan appeared — dark eyes serious, a small football tucked under his arm. He didn't say much at first. He rarely did. He just crouched down beside her, inspected the toppled dolls, and said softly, "They won't sit because the ground is bumpy."
Madeleine blinked at him, startled that he'd spoken at all. "So what?"
"So you need to give them something flat," he answered, placing his football down and patting it gently. "Here. Like a chair."
It was such a small thing, but Madeleine never forgot it. He'd given up his football — his most precious thing — just to make her smile.
Not long after, Can Yılmaz burst onto the scene. His family were close friends of the Yıldız household, and they lived just outside the city center. Where Kenan was quiet and careful, Can was noise and chaos. He was the kind of boy who climbed too high in the playground, jumped too fast into the river, and laughed too loudly when adults scolded him.
Together, the three of them became inseparable. By the time they were seven, everyone in their neighborhood knew them as "die drei" — the trio.
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Growing up in Regensburg meant freedom. Their childhood was stitched together from long afternoons kicking a ball in the grassy fields by the Danube, racing their bikes through the narrow streets of the Altstadts.
They had their own rituals:
• On Saturdays, Can would knock on both doors, already bouncing with energy, and drag them to the football pitch at the edge of the city.
• On rainy days, they sat in Madeleine's living room building forts from blankets while their parents sipped Turkish tea and German coffee in the kitchen.
• In winter, they skated clumsily on the frozen edges of the river, holding onto each other so none of them would fall.
They fought, of course — bitter little spats about rules or fairness or who got the last piece of cake. But no fight ever lasted long. One of them would always crack first, usually Can, who couldn't stand silence. He'd shove them playfully, mutter "Come on, don't be boring," and just like that, things would be back to normal.
Their families joked that they were like siblings. But to Madeleine, that wasn't true. Not really. Even as a child, she felt something different about Kenan. He was steady in ways Can wasn't, gentle in ways most boys weren't. When she fell off her bike and scraped her knee, it was Kenan who quietly tied his hoodie around her leg until they got home. When she cried after losing her favorite stuffed rabbit, it was Kenan who searched the entire street until he found it.
And though she didn't have words for it then, some part of her already knew: Kenan was more than just family. He was hers.
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By the time they turned twelve, the city felt smaller, and their dreams felt bigger.
Can declared boldly one afternoon, lying on the grass by the Danube, "We're going to be famous one day. Me and Kenan will play football for Turkey. And Madeleine—" he smirked, "—Madeleine will sit in the stands and write about us."
Madeleine had thrown a handful of grass at him. "You wish. I'll write about Kenan, not you."
Kenan, lying quietly beside them with his arms behind his head, had only smiled at that. But when Madeleine caught his eyes, there had been something in them — something that made her heart flutter in a way she didn't understand yet.
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The city of Regensburg shaped them: its streets, its summers, its winters by the river. And though they thought their bond was unbreakable, time had other plans. By sixteen, everything they knew would start to crack.
But in those golden years — before scouts, before jealousy, before heartbreak — they were just three children running wild through Regensburg, believing that summers would last forever.
