As the sun began to peek over the horizon, the city woke up. Traffic thickened. Trabbis and Wartburgs zipped around him like colorful beetles. Elias had to stay sharp; one wrong move or a delayed brake could lead to a collision that would end his shift—and his reputation.

The city of Spandau was draped in the grey, heavy mist of 1986. For Elias, a young driver fresh out of training, the cockpit of the MAN SD200 wasn’t just a workspace; it was a sanctuary of buttons, levers, and the rhythmic hiss of air brakes. He adjusted his cap, checked his watch—exactly 05:00—and turned the ignition. The engine roared to life with a familiar, throaty rumble that vibrated through the floorboards.

This morning was different. He wasn't just driving a route; he was navigating history. The Berlin Wall stood as a silent, concrete shadow just blocks away, a constant reminder of the divided world he navigated daily. As he pulled out of the depot, the yellow double-decker bus felt like a massive, lumbering beast, yet it responded to his touch with surprising precision.

He reached for his thermos, the steam from the coffee curling in the cool cab air. Tomorrow would be 1990 in the simulation of his memory—the Wall would be gone, the routes would change, and the yellow buses would cross into territory they hadn't seen in decades. But for today, he was content in 1986, mastering the gears and the grit of a city divided.

The rain started halfway through the loop. It wasn't a downpour, just a persistent drizzle that made the cobblestones slick. Elias flipped the wipers on, the rhythmic thump-thump adding to the mechanical symphony of the bus. He lowered his speed, feeling the tires momentarily lose their grip on a particularly greasy patch of road.

"Morning, Elias. Right on time, as always," she chirped, dropping her coins into the fare box.