Read German.
Let the context teach you.

At seven, Lukas is already awake.

He lives in a small apartment in Berlin.

In the kitchen, he makes coffee and eats a slice of bread with jam.

His cat lies on the chair.

Lukas opens the window: the air is cool and fresh; in the courtyard, the birds chirp.

He reads his book for ten minutes, then rides his bike to work and looks forward to the day.

My grandmother has a very big garden behind her house.

There are many flowers in different colors: red roses, yellow tulips, and white daisies.

Every morning she goes out with water to water the plants.

Sometimes a blue butterfly visits the flowers.

My grandmother says butterflies bring good luck.

On Sundays I help her, and she teaches me the name of each plant.

The garden smells wonderful and is my favorite place.

Yesterday evening Sarah and Jonas went into a small beer garden.

The waiter brought the menu, and they ordered a pretzel and a pork knuckle.

Later they shared some apple strudel too.

"It tastes fantastic," Sarah said.

Outside it had grown cool; they put their jackets on.

Tired but happy, they went home late.

Last Saturday I took the train from Berlin to Dresden.

The journey lasted about two hours.

I sat by the window and watched the landscape the whole time.

First I saw green fields with cows, then drier hills with fruit trees.

An older woman in the seat next to me offered a mandarin, and we talked about our families.

When the train arrived in Dresden, I was excited because it was my first visit to the city.

On Friday afternoon, Julia took the train from Hamburg to Warnemünde; it was still raining lightly.

On the beach, the air smelled of salt and seaweed.

She rented a bike and rode along the dyke; seagulls circled above the breakwaters.

In a small café, she ordered fish soup and chatted with the landlady about storms and quiet days before the tourist season.

The woman said people should respect the waves and wind rather than underestimate them — the sea is not a patient host.

Julia wrote down the tide times and promised herself to return in spring.

Every Sunday my grandmother bakes an apple cake from a recipe her mother passed down.

That morning, while kneading the dough, she explained that the apples had to cook slowly so the sugar caramelizes without burning.

The smell filled the whole kitchen and drew neighbors who wanted to "just say hello." When the cake came out of the oven, we let it cool on the wooden table while she told how the whole family used to meet on Sunday afternoons.

I write down each step in a notebook so I do not forget these details.

Every Sunday my grandmother bakes an apple cake from a recipe her mother passed down. That morning, while kneading the dough, she explained that the apples had to cook slowly so the sugar caramelizes without burning. The smell filled the whole kitchen and drew neighbors who wanted to "just say hello." When the cake came out of the oven, we let it cool on the wooden table while she told how the whole family used to meet on Sunday afternoons. I write down each step in a notebook so I do not forget these details.

Along the storefront windows, moisture from the last rain still lies like a fine film.

Felix is leafing through a slim volume of essays when a customer, half playfully, half demandingly, asks for a "fair" price.

He chuckles softly: "A book isn't junk," he says; "it's a conversation that someone broke off mid-sentence." She leaves without buying anything — but a passerby nods, pays without haggling, and murmurs that she would rather support a tradition than belittle it with talk of discounts.

Felix clears his throat and stands behind his shop counter again, as if that sentence had somehow shielded him once more.

Along the storefront windows, moisture from the last rain still lies like a fine film. Felix is leafing through a slim volume of essays when a customer, half playfully, half demandingly, asks for a "fair" price. He chuckles softly: "A book isn't junk," he says; "it's a conversation that someone broke off mid-sentence." She leaves without buying anything — but a passerby nods, pays without haggling, and murmurs that she would rather support a tradition than belittle it with talk of discounts. Felix clears his throat and stands behind his shop counter again, as if that sentence had somehow shielded him once more.

Under the old plane trees by the water, stalls line up like dabs of color against the gray light.

That Sunday, while the city was still waking, Lena listened to a vendor explain why flowering zucchini were worth more than they looked.

A tourist photographed every crate without buying anything; she smiled politely: "A market isn't a backdrop, sir — it's a conversation between soil and plate." He shrugged, but a student also paid for a bunch of basil and murmured that people underestimate such weekly rituals too easily.

Lena shook her hand: sometimes a few euros are enough to support a tradition that even mass tourism cannot quite flatten.

Under the old plane trees by the water, stalls line up like dabs of color against the gray light. That Sunday, while the city was still waking, Lena listened to a vendor explain why flowering zucchini were worth more than they looked. A tourist photographed every crate without buying anything; she smiled politely: "A market isn't a backdrop, sir — it's a conversation between soil and plate." He shrugged, but a student also paid for a bunch of basil and murmured that people underestimate such weekly rituals too easily. Lena shook her hand: sometimes a few euros are enough to support a tradition that even mass tourism cannot quite flatten.