Bowie’s seven-room first-floor flat sits above an archway on Hauptstraße 155, between a tattoo parlour and a physiotherapy clinic, in a Schöneberg block nobody would photograph otherwise. The detail that gives it away is the door: real roses pushed into the cast-iron flowers of the Gründerzeit ironwork, left every January 8th and 10th — his birthday, and the day he died. The lock still has its two keyholes at right angles, built for the pass-through keys that once forced tenants to lock up behind them.