The Little Things About You

“So yeah… mmhm… yeah,” Haruto mumbled between bites. “I usually go for the cream-filled ones, but nobody told me powdered jelly was this good—oh man.”

Henrik looked at him warily, the sort of look that suggested a man might consider finishing what was in his mouth before beginning a conversation.

Haruto swallowed and brushed some sugar off his fingers.

“So,” he continued, gesturing loosely with the half-eaten donut. “Suppliers left the material out overnight. It rained. Whole shipment’s soaked through. They’re dealing with that now, so the site visit’s cancelled.”

He leaned back against the table.

“Shame, really. The soba in Hakone is quite radical indeed.”

Henrik gave a confused smile.

“Radical?”

Haruto shrugged. “You know what I mean.”

“Not particularly,” Henrik said. “It’s an unusual description for noodles.”

“Try it first buddy, then judge. It’ll change your life”

“Anyway, it sounds like they made a rather careless mistake,” Henrik said, pushing away the glazed donut Haruto was offering him.

Haruto glanced down at the box on the table and swept his hand across it.

“Come on man. Nobody wants these things—no filling, no zazz. I thought you usually loved ‘em bland?”

“I know but… I’m watching my diet.”

Haruto studied him for a moment, the sort of look that suggested a man might consider a better lie first.

Henrik nudged the table leg lightly with his shoe.

“I was looking forward to getting out of the office for a bit,” he admitted. “Any idea when they’ll reschedule?”

Haruto shook his head, already working through another donut.

“Mm—hmm… No clue.”

Tuesdays were usually reserved for site visits around Tokyo and other cities. The reason for cancelling made sense—rain, damaged materials, delays—but after years of it never happening before, the break in routine felt oddly noticeable.

Henrik headed back to his workstation, leaving Haruto to his now almost-empty box of glazed. No need to fuss over little things. He had work to do.

. . .

Another uneventful workday behind him, Henrik parked the car in the usual spot outside their flat. Same place, as always. Climbing the seven flights of stairs, he felt a sort of weariness settle into his legs. A tinge of tire in his calves. Surely this wasn’t aging—or if it was, it was subtle enough to go unnoticed most days.

He rubbed his shoes carefully on the mat before entering their apartment. Maria hated shoes tracking dirt from outside. From the bathroom across the hall came her voice, accompanied by the sound of running water:

“Is that you, dear? I’ll just finish up here. Get Sam ready, will you?”

Tuesdays were also when Sam had his karate lessons. Always Tuesdays. The dojo was tucked into a small building beside a quiet shopping mall, just five minutes away if the traffic cooperated that day. Henrik found the boy already dressed in his gear, skipping in place and throwing punches into the air.

“Let’s go. Go now!” His blonde curls bounced with each movement. Henrik didn’t need to do much—Sam was ready ahead of him, always expecting him to arrive just when he did.

“All right,” Henrik said, rubbing the bridge of his nose. “Let’s check in with mama first. Don’t want her getting mad at me again for forgetting the tomatoes like last time, eh?”

Sam gave a small nod, already moving toward the living-room table where his pencils and paper were laid out.

Henrik sank onto the couch, letting himself settle a little heavier than usual as he arranged some cushions behind him.

He heard the bathroom door shut behind Maria as her wet slippers squeaked across the floor.

“We’re almost out of toilet paper—better grab some on the way back. And two-ply this time, por favor,” she teased, stepping into the hallway. A cotton bud in one ear, a hairbrush in the other. She turned her head and smiled at Henrik, her hair flat, shifting gently as she moved towards him.

… What?

Henrik stared at Maria’s hair. He was so used to the curls that the straight profile left him almost speechless… almost.

“Wow… honey… that— that looks good on you,” he finally managed.

“Uh… thanks?” she said, a hint of amusement in her voice. “That’s a new one. Planning to flatter me before droppin’ some bad news?” She tapped the side of his head lightly with her brush.

“So… you finally got those curls to settle down, huh?” Henrik asked, slowly pacing around her. A little whistle escaped his lips.

“Curls?” Maria arched an eyebrow. “What?”

“Yours… or rather, the ones you used to have. Now it’s… flat.”

Maria’s lips twitched, half a smile forming. “Ahh, I see what this is.” She placed her hands on her hips.

“I know me and sis look like twins, but c’mon now—these jokes are getting old!”

…Sister?

“Sister?” Henrik repeated, stopping to stare at her.

“Jeez,” Maria sighed, eyeing him with disbelief. “An expert in maths and physics—award-winning, even—but it really doesn’t feel like that sometimes. Yes, my sister. The one you even met a couple years ago? The one with the curly hair?”

She raised the brush and gave him a light tap on the head.

“Should I drop Sam off today? You sound like you need a bit of a snoozer.”

Henrik placed a hand on his head.

Am I remembering wrong? Did I forget something?

Why was he feeling so confused all of a sudden?

Maria had always had that sleek, smoothed-out hair. It was her sister—yes, that was it. Her sister had the curls. He remembered now. He had met her once… somewhere.

Did I?

That made sense.

Did it?

He was probably just tired.

Am I?

Henrik gave a weak smile and shook his head. “No, no. Just a little… lil’ silly joke I tried that didn’t really stick the landing.”

He winked before turning to Sam.

“C’mon buddy, let’s go before sensei whoops your buns for being late.”

Henrik grabbed the car keys off the counter and headed for the door.

“Huh? Sensei doesn’t do that!” Sam yelled, scrambling for his duffel bag and rushing after him.

Henrik gave a quick wave and was about to leave when Maria called out.

“Just like that, huh?” She sounded annoyed.

Henrik turned back, slightly puzzled.

Maria pointed to her face and tapped her foot impatiently.

Henrik hurried over and pecked her cheek, only to receive another tap on the head from Maria’s hairbrush—harder this time.

“This is what happens when you don’t eat lunch,” she scolded, then turned to Sam.

“And what about you, mister? Too old for me already?”

Sam rushed over and wrapped himself around her leg, hugging it tight, a giggle betraying his half-apology.

The pair left their flat, having completed the required rituals, and went down the seven flights of stairs.

When they stepped out of the building, Henrik paused for a moment while Sam raced to their sedan. Henrik unlocked the car for him and Sam clambered inside, fastening his seatbelt instinctively while watching a dog trot past on the sidewalk.

Henrik remained outside for a moment—not quite needing to catch his breath, just feeling oddly drained. He took a few slow breaths and wiped the sweat from his forehead.

… Her curls?

Why was he thinking about this so hard? It was nothing important.

People misremembered small things all the time. A conversation slightly wrong, the color of a shirt, where you’d left your keys. It happened.

Still—

Henrik pressed his fingers against his temples, eyes shut for a moment.

He was remembering wrong. He had to be. Maria had always had that smooth, straight hair. Always. It was one of the first things he had noticed about her when they first met. He had complimented her often about them.

Or had it been something else?

No… Yes?

A sudden banging pulled him from his thoughts.

Sam was knocking his little fists against the window impatiently, an exaggerated scowl on his face. He brushed a few strands of hair from his eyes before resuming his siege against the door.

Maria’s hair. Always a mess…

Henrik took a slow breath and forced a small smile.

The dojo wasn’t far, but traffic here was unpredictable.

They should get going.

Henrik slid into the driver’s seat and started the engine. Sam wriggled in the back, humming a random jumble of words and notes, something he’d seen in a cartoon perhaps.

Henrik’s mind drifted again as he drove—the way he was feeling about Maria.

What was it?

He was tired. That was most likely what it was. New projects, more clients, more work. Too many late nights staring at drawings and measurements until the lines blurred together.

Memory played tricks when you were exhausted. Everyone knew that. He told himself to focus, but the thoughts clung stubbornly.

He rolled slowly into the intersection, oblivious to the changing traffic lights above him.

He didn’t see the truck until it was almost on him.

It cut the crossing too fast from the left.

Henrik slammed the brakes. Tires screamed. The car jerked forward, then back, skidding on the asphalt. Sam let out a squeal as he gripped his seatbelt tighter.

The truck thundered past just a foot from the front bumper, barely missing them. The city’s noise came back in a rush—the horn, the screeching brakes, shouting from a pedestrian.

Henrik’s hands shook on the wheel. Sam stared wide-eyed at him from the backseat.

Silence hung for a second, broken only by the shallow, ragged breathing of the two.

“You’re doing good, Daddy. Not long now, we’re almost… there.”

Henrik looked back at Sam, who was wearing a full grin. Oddly, the boy seemed calm—almost gleeful—after what had just happened.

“Yeah, I’m—I’m sorry about that, it’s just…”

He ran trembling fingers through his hair, forcing a slow breath.

"Let's not tell mama about this, okay?"

He needed to get a grip.

* * *

The man in white would select his piece with care.

He tipped his head slightly, studying the stack from different angles.

His fingers pressed lightly against one of the middle blocks, testing it. After a moment, he drew it free. The block slid out with a dry scrape.

A bright yellow one this time.

The tower shifted.

Not much—just a minor adjustment in the layers above. Then it settled again. Just like last time.

He placed the piece on the table.

For a while neither of them moved.

Then the figure across from him twitched.

It leaned forward, its form still uncertain. Its appendage extended. The motion was careful—but somewhat hesitant now.

It reached the loose block and lifted it from the table.

The figure held it there for a moment, suspended between the table and the tower. Then it began to raise the piece toward the open space where it belonged.

But halfway there—

the hand failed.

The shape of it slackened without warning. The block slipped free and struck the table with a flat, hollow sound.

It rolled once before stopping.

The figure remained where it was, arm still raised, as though the motion had not yet received permission to end.

A tint of grey now lived within its outline, thin and uneven, as if someone had begun sketching it in but lost interest halfway through.

The man in white watched without a sound, shifting in his seat as if adjusting to the weight of the moment. His back straightened, and his hands rose to rest under his chin.

The space in the tower remained empty…

Progress