My name is Arnostka.

I am nine years old.

I live in Weißwasser.

It is the year 2125.

Most children live in houses or apartments.

I live in a museum.

A real museum.

My mother says one of my great-great-great-grandfathers built it more than two hundred years ago.

I have never counted how many "greats" there are.

It is simply a very long time ago.

The building is called the Glass Museum.

Visitors come from many places to see it.

For me, it is just home.

And I think it is a wonderful place to live.

My favourite room is the one with the old tiled stove.

The stove stands quietly in a large room near the entrance.

It does not heat the museum anymore.

At least not in the usual way.

But everybody in my family treats it with respect.

My mother says the stove is the heart of the house.

I think she might be right.

Today I am talking to my best friend, Nkerian.

She lives in Kenya.

Just like me, she is nine years old.

We talk through a virtual window hanging in my room.

When I look through it, it feels as if she is sitting right beside me.

Nkerian once told me that her mother is Maasai.

I told her that my mother is Sorbian.

For a few minutes we thought about why our mothers consider that so important.

Then we started talking about much more interesting things.

The sand dunes outside Weißwasser.

New friends.

The coming Christmas season.

And stories.

I love stories.

Especially the Christmas stories my mother tells every year.

"Do you want to hear my favourite one?" I ask.

Nkerian nods immediately.

So I begin.

"My mother tells me a story about the old tiled stove."

"The one in your museum?" asks Nkerian.

"Yes."

I point towards the hallway.

"The very same one."

I have heard the story many times.

Hundreds of years ago, people gathered around the stove during Christmas.

The stove warmed the room.

The guests.

And, according to my mother, sometimes even their hearts.

Then, long ago, something happened.

The city decided to close the museum.

There was not enough money.

The stove was hidden behind a wall.

The museum's future seemed uncertain.

"But then everything changed," I tell Nkerian.

"A few days before the museum was supposed to close, the mayor visited the Christmas celebration."

"Then what happened?" she asks.

I shrug.

"My mother never explains that part."

"She only says the mayor spent a long time standing beside the stove."

"And afterwards the museum stayed open."

Nkerian thinks about this for a moment.

"Maybe the stove talked to him."

I laugh.

"Maybe."

For a while neither of us says anything.

Then Nkerian smiles.

"We have a tree like that."

"A tree?"

She nods.

"The Oreteti tree in our village."

"My grandmother talks to it."

"My mother talks to it."

"Sometimes I do too."

"Does it answer?" I ask.

Nkerian grins.

"No."

"Not with words."

We both laugh.

Then we spend some time talking about Christmas.

And about gifts.

And about things that are much more important than being serious.

Eventually the evening becomes darker.

The virtual window begins to fade.

Soon it is time to say goodbye.

Before leaving, Nkerian waves.

"Tell your stove hello from me."

"I will."

"And tell your tree hello from me," I reply.

The window disappears.

Suddenly my room feels much quieter.

I walk down the hallway.

Past old glass artworks.

Past photographs.

Past things that people thought were important a very long time ago.

Finally I stop in front of the tiled stove.

The room is silent.

I place my hand on one of the old ceramic tiles.

The stove feels cool.

Very old.

Very patient.

I think about Nkerian.

I think about her Oreteti tree.

And then a funny thought enters my mind.

I wonder if the old tiled stove in Weißwasser and the Oreteti tree in Kenya are talking to each other.

Maybe they have been friends for years.

Maybe they exchange stories about children.

Maybe they listen to us more carefully than we realize.

I smile.

Then I sit down beside the stove and tell it about my day.