Even in a city as alive and eccentric as Frankfurt, where every day brought its own set of curiosities, what occurred outside Baroness Von Steudel’s estate on a brisk Wednesday morning would be remembered for decades.

  Gunther, already shaken by the depth of his error, was still apprehensive about my plan. “Ten thousand extras, Frederik? Isn’t that a bit... much?”

  I leaned back, brushing imaginary fuzz off my shirt. “For anyone else, perhaps. But for Baroness Von Steudel, it’s just about right.”

  And so, preparations began. I hired every extra in Europe, and then some from the neighboring continents. We needed actors, performers, musicians, criers, and more. This would be an apology for the ages.

  On the day itself, as dawn’s first light brushed the rooftops, a sea of people gathered outside the Baroness’s expansive gates. There were men and women holding signs that read, “Sorry for the extra year,” “May every year bring you joy, even the ones added accidentally,” and “Gunther bakes with love, not accuracy in numbers.”

  A massive parade float, shaped like an enormous cake, trundled down the street, each tier decorated with ornate designs, and atop the highest tier, Gunther stood, holding a single candle.

  Musicians serenaded the morning air with sorrowful tunes, each note dripping with regret. Dancers, dressed as baked goods, moved in harmony, telling a tragic story of a baker’s innocent blunder.

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  A small, solemn group stood out amidst the grandeur. They were the “Criers.” They specialized in shedding tears on-demand—today—they had been gathered to weep for Gunther’s grievous error. Armed with onions, they sobbed furiously, producing a small river of tears that trickled towards the Baroness’s front steps. The sight was as bizarre as it was touching.

  Then, in a grand crescendo, a choir of a thousand voices sang a poignant hymn penned for the occasion, “The Ballad of the Misplaced Year.”

  All of Hessen seemed to pause, drawn into this grand spectacle of remorse. People peered from windows, children clambered up trees for a better view, and traffic everywhere came to a standstill.

  Then, right before the Baroness’s front door, at the very epicenter of this orchestra, in the river of tears, dressed up in a garb that mirrored a tragedy from ancient Greek plays, I slowly knelt. I wept openly and completely, tears streaming down my cheeks, as I pleaded to the heavens and then the earth, begging for forgiveness on behalf of Gunther. With arms raised dramatically towards Baroness’ balcony, I cried out, “If this blunder is too grievous to forgive, take me! End my days! For what is a man who cannot mend a year’s mistake?”

  All the eyes of Germany were now on the front balcony of the Baroness’s mansion. The massive crowd, the performers, even the birds in the sky, frozen in midair, waiting in anticipation.

  Inside the Baroness’s manor, curtains twitched. Then, the balcony door swung open, and there she stood, Baroness Ludmilla Von Steudel, looking out at the sea of apologizers and directly at the melodramatic scene I was enacting at her doorstep. The entire world held its breath, waiting for her reaction.

  Then, breaking the silence, a slow clap echoed. The Baroness, with a smirk that hinted at amusement, clapped her hands in appreciation of the grand gesture. The gathered crowd erupted in cheer!

  Gunther, atop his float, wiped away a tear. This wasn’t just an apology, it was redemption, delivered in the grandest style possible.