Why do the train schedules still list stations that don't exist?
Stand at Gross Strehlitz Bahnhof at 5:47 AM. The ghost train to Breslau never arrives, but feel how the platform vibrates with memory. Count the people who aren't waiting. Each empty bench holds a departed family. Chalk their names in station dust—watch Settler commuters step around these absences, pretending not to see what's missing.
Whose signatures rot in the flooded Rathaus basement?
The water damage from 1945 never dried. Descend those stairs (officially verboten). Smell it? Mildew mixed with fear—the particular stench of hurried evacuation. Float paper boats made from Expansionist permits down there. Each one carries away a lie. The damp preserves what bureaucracy wants dissolved: the names of who lived here first.
How many doorways lead nowhere since the streets changed direction?
Map the bricked entrances on Bahnhofstraße. Every third building faces wrong—oriented toward a reality that got cancelled. At each sealed door, leave a key cut from soap. When it rains, they'll melt into the cracks, opening nothing, revealing everything. The Occupier's concrete can't fully seal what insists on being remembered.
District of Deletions
- Leschnitz - Where church bells ring at refugee hours
- Andreashütte - Where furnaces dream in banned languages
- Ujest - Where the market sells nostalgia by the kilogram
- Colonnowska - Where iron remembers different hammers
- Himmelwitz - Where monks pray in forgotten declensions
- Stubendorf - Where tractors plow around invisible graves