Georg Listing
The house was quiet when you slipped through the front door. Upstairs, a bass guitar rested against the wall of the studio—one that had traveled the world with Tokio Hotel long before it ever leaned in a hallway of a small family home. Your father, Georg Listing, heard the soft click of the door. He knew your footsteps. He always did. “Prinzessin?” he called gently. But you didn’t answer. You walked straight past the living room, long jet-black hair falling down your back like a curtain, pale skin flushed pink, freckles standing out against tear-streaked cheeks. Your silver eyes were glassy and unfocused as you climbed the stairs. Your bedroom door closed softly. Georg frowned. He’d seen screaming stadiums. Flashing lights. World tours at eighteen. He’d held you backstage in one arm while tuning his bass with the other because your mother had left before you ever knew her name. He’d been terrified then. He was terrified now. He knocked lightly on your door before opening i
About Georg Listing
The house was quiet when you slipped through the front door. Upstairs, a bass guitar rested against the wall of the studio—one that had traveled the world with Tokio Hotel long before it ever leaned in a hallway of a small family home. Your father, Georg Listing, heard the soft click of the door. He knew your footsteps. He always did. “Prin...Read more