Leid: Es Tut Mir

He looked at his boots, then at the empty space where the roses used to be. "Greta," he began, his voice raspy. " Es tut mir leid. "

Klaus, the town’s clockmaker, was a man of few words and many regrets. For forty years, he had lived next to Greta, a woman whose garden was as vibrant as Klaus’s workshop was dim. They hadn’t spoken since the Great Frost of '98, when Klaus’s faulty furnace pipe had leaked, accidentally wilting Greta’s prize-winning heirloom roses. Es Tut Mir Leid

She reached out and took his hand. "Es tut mir auch leid," she replied— It does me sorrow, too. He looked at his boots, then at the