So it lies there, rust-red and motionless, in the middle of the marsh. They call it "Hedwig," as if it had a last name and a savings account. Its bow, once sailing, now points into the reeds. A tree grows at the stern. Not a metaphor, but a real, living tree that found its way up while the ship forgot its way down.
Those who walk here don't come for sensation. But for silence. For a truth that doesn't scream, but grows – from steel and earth, from moss, from time. You can't hear the Spree, but it's there. It flows by as if this were all perfectly normal: a boat that no longer sails, and a tree that does so nonetheless.
"Hedwig" no longer has an engine. But it does have a story. And roots. Perhaps that's more than many a sailing ship can say.