The Quiet Before Things Break

After driving a bit slower than usual—and taking the time to double-check each signal crossing—they arrived at the dojo and stepped out of the car.

“I'm gonna do some shopping and wait outside for you, alright?”

Sam nodded, already pulling the strings of his duffel taut. “Yes! Yes! I want chocolate milk also, it's on sale!”

“On sale?” Henrik repeated, glancing down at him and smiling. The phrasing felt oddly deliberate. Was the boy already interested in the world of budgeting and finances? Maybe it was from an ad he’d seen on TV.

“Yes. On sale. That one,” he said, more firmly this time, before turning around. “Bye, Daddy!”

He ran toward a small group of kids who had just arrived.

Henrik watched him fall in easily without hesitation—quick slaps of hands, brief laughter—before they drifted toward the entrance, already testing loose kicks and half-formed strikes against one another.

He turned and walked towards the nearby shopping mall. It was a quaint place—quieter than it used to be. Most of the shop spaces had long since closed, replaced now and then by new vendors or small restaurants that never seemed to last. Apart from a niche clothing store tucked off to the side, all that really remained was the grocery store—the only place people still came for, the only reason why the mall was still up.

He grabbed a small trolley near the entrance and headed inside, the store sitting just off to the right as soon as you walked in.

There was a man who worked here—Almas. He had a way about him. Not just knowing where things were, but knowing them exactly. The aisle, the price, how many were left in stock without even checking. It went beyond familiarity.

He was in the produce section now, stacking potatoes into a neat display as Henrik stepped in.

“Ah—Mr. Henrik!” he called, straightening up with a quick grin. “How’s it going, sir? All good today?”

“As fine as it goes,” Henrik said, offering a small nod. “How about yourself?”

Almas gave a light chuckle, “Still standing, sir. That’s enough most days.”

“So, Almas—where’s the chocolate milk… and, uh, the one on sale?”

“Aisle 8, right in the middle, sir. Been on promotion all week—$4.99 for a six-pack.”

“$4.99?”

Almas kept smiling, but something in it slipped—just for a moment. Just enough to notice.

“Y-Yen to dollars ain’t that hard, sir,” he said, letting out a quick laugh. “Thought it might make things a bit easier for you.”

He wasn’t wrong. Henrik still found himself converting prices in his head more often than not, even now. Old habits. He’d been trying to stop—trying to let the numbers settle as they were—but it didn’t always stick.

“Alright. Thanks, man.”

Almas gave a brisk salute before turning back to his potatoes, hands already moving again, restoring the vegetable display.

Henrik walked on, passing a few other customers and staff, and made his way toward the back of the store.

“Six… seven… eight, okay.”

Aisle 8 was the last in line, stocked mostly with cartons—juices, water, milk set in orderly rows. Henrik didn’t come here often. Water came from the tap, their milk was delivered, and Maria swore that store-bought juice was little more than flavoring and water dressed up in a box.

He’d better pick something with an organic label—or at least something that looked convincing—otherwise he’d be back here later, receipt in hand for a refund, having just sat through a stern lecture at home.

Henrik stepped toward the middle of the aisle and scanned the shelves for the chocolate milk on sale.

But it wasn’t there.

Strawberry. Banana. Plain. Even chocolate—but not the one Sam had asked for.

Did Almas forget where it was? That didn’t really happen. Not with him. Not ever.

Maybe some other staff member had moved it. Shifted things around without him knowing.

Henrik glanced toward the end of the aisle.

He noticed a cardboard cutout of a cartoon-ish brown cow propped up beside a small refrigerator unit. Above it hung a red banner with SALE printed across it.

That had to be it.

Henrik started down the aisle, pushing the trolley along. One of its wheels dragged slightly, pulling to the side with a dull resistance. Why he’d taken it at all, he wasn’t sure—a basket would’ve done just fine.

He reached the refrigerator unit and pulled the door open.

The world thinned.

All sound dropped away, leaving only a low, steady hum from the unit in front of him—muted, yet somehow pressing in on his ears.

Was it always like that?

He let the door fall shut.

The store rushed back in at once—the rattle of a cart somewhere in a nearby aisle, the soft thud of boxes being unpacked, a voice over the intercom droning on about some sale.

Henrik opened the door again.

Everything dulled. Not silence, not quite—but smothered, like the air itself had condensed around him. The machinery buzz remained, sitting somewhere just in front of his eyes, pushing everything else aside.

He frowned slightly and left the door open this time, lowering himself into a crouch beside it to peer toward the back of the unit.

Maybe something was wrong with it.

As he nudged the cardboard cow aside for a better look, he caught sight of another aisle tucked behind it. Yellow tape hung loosely across the entrance, sagging in places, marking it off for maintenance.

At the far end stood a door—plain wood, out of place against the modern furnishing of the store.

What held his awareness wasn’t the door itself, but the absence of anything on it. No handle. No knob. Nothing to suggest it could be opened at all.

Henrik stared at it for a moment.

Closed for maintenance. That was all. An unfinished section, an incomplete door—it made sense, in a way. These things happened.

Even so…

He found himself stepping forward—slowly at first.

The hum from the refrigerator followed him intently.

No—it grew.

It pressed in now. It sat heavy in his head, just behind the eyes, dull and insistent.

Why was there a door here?

Why didn’t it have a handle?

Why… did he feel like this?

Henrik swallowed, pushing the questions down as they surfaced. One after another.

But he kept treading onwards.

Pulled by something he didn’t know, but felt like he should.

He finally reached the door.

Now what?

What was he doing here? He needed to get back for Sam. How long had it been? Five minutes? Ten? Or had it been hours?

He raised a hand, pausing halfway. No handle, no knob—but he could sense something there. Not with his eyes, not with his logic—but some faint pull under his skin. His fingers stretched toward where the handle should have been, almost touching it…

RING. RING

Henrik drew a jagged breath and stumbled backward, landing hard on his back.

RING. RING

Gasping, he fumbled for his phone in his pocket and answered.

“Wh-Who is this?”

“Mr. Ali! You’ve just won fifty billion yen! Lucky Winner! Lucky Winner!”

“…What?”

“You really answer calls without checking who it’s from? Surprised we haven’t been scammed out of our house yet,” came a teasing voice. Maria.

“Oh—uh, yeah. Sorry. I was… just busy finding the—uh the—the st-stuff you needed.”

“You sound out of breath. How big is that grocery store? I appreciate you hunting down the two-ply, though!”

Toilet paper. Right. He needed that too. He remembered what she’d said.

For some reason, familiarity was all he wanted right now.

Henrik pushed himself upright, legs shaking slightly, and walked out of the aisle, placing the cardboard cow back in place. The oppressive hum had receded, there was barely any sound coming from the refrigerator now.

He grabbed a pack of chocolate milk and shut the door with a firm click.

“Was there anything else you wanted, dear?”

“A kilo of tomatoes—for the lasagna sauce. And don’t you dare bring back donuts—bye now!”

Henrik let his hand holding the phone drop to his side, exhaling slowly, and placed the pack in his trolley.

He liked lasagna. Maria was a good cook, but with pasta she was something else entirely. She made everything herself—the sauce, the sheets—and insisted on buying cheese from a small, out-of-the-way shop that, according to her, had “the real stuff.”

Any troubling thoughts in his mind thinned out quickly, overtaken by the thought of it—rich, cheesy, layered just right. He found himself smiling without quite meaning to, hands settling back on the trolley as he steered toward the aisle with the toilet paper.

Maybe she’d made dessert too. Her sticky date pudding had a way of ending things on a note that lingered.

…

“All right then, last one,” Maria insisted, placing yet another portion of lasagna onto the boy’s plate.

Sam banged his fork and knife against the table with approval before digging in without hesitation.

Henrik, not far behind, nudged his own plate forward—cleaned nearly spotless of sauce—offering it up with a sheepish look. Maria eyed him amusedly.

“You're not much different, I suppose,” she sighed, taking his plate and cutting out another square. “Maybe I should start slipping in some spinach. See if either of you notice.”

Any day that ended like this counted as a good one in Henrik’s book.

Maria hadn’t even glanced at the carton of chocolate milk while unpacking the groceries. Turns out it wasn’t even organic… and it was set to expire in five days. He’d discovered it just as he was hauling the bags out of the back of the car. Somehow, the risk had paid off.

Maria had made the date pudding too—just as he’d half expected.

He took his plate from her and started on it at once, already a few bites in before he slowed.

Henrik watched as she reached over with a napkin, dabbing at Sam’s mouth while the boy squirmed in his seat, barely able to stay still. Her ponytail swayed gently with the motion—smooth.

Something about her hair…

What was it?

A man in a suit—

Who was he?

A door without a knob—

Henrik grabbed a spoon and took a bite of the pudding. Warm, dense, the sweetness deepened by the glossy sauce that clung to it. He chewed the morsel slowly, rich without being heavy, settling across his tongue in a way that felt familiar—comfortable. 

Just as he liked it. As always.

Today was a good day. Days with good food always were.

Nothing out of the ordinary, nothing to think twice about.

But Henrik didn’t know this would be the last time he’d feel this good. 

The last time he’d be having lasagna… and sticky date pudding.

* * *

A red one now—the man in white’s fingers curled around a block right in the middle, lifting it with a precision born of countless repetitions, each movement measured. The tower wobbled a bit more—paused—and then settled into its new form.

No one moved.

Then the figure across fidgeted—provoked. An appendage extended outward and gripped the little red block with slender tendrils. It lifted, inching up—up towards the place it sought.

But halfway there—

the hand faltered again.

A tremor ran through its form, a thin grey haze spreading along the limb as if the energy it spent left traces behind.

Then it steadied.

It moved once more and the block completed its journey, settling snugly into its spot. The appendage retracted, snapping back into the body.

A sound came from it, a sort of frail moan.

The man in white leaned back, letting his head drop over the chair’s back. Arms stretched along the armrests, legs set apart just a bit. A small reprieve, a measured exhale of control.

The air shifted around him. It wasn’t the disappointment of before.

It was satisfaction.

Even though the figure had completed its duty this time, the struggle—the visible tremor, the effort etched in every line of its form—was proof enough. Progress had been made, resistance met, and the man in white recognized it.

The yellow block he had drawn earlier wasn’t significant, a minor piece. Its removal didn’t have much impact.

But this one was different. The red block was never meant to fall—not yet. It mattered too much. The tower’s integrity depended on it.

He knew the figure would return it without a doubt. The tower wouldn't collapse—not now—but the effort it took to restore it was more than he’d anticipated. It was slowly decaying.

Getting closer.

But not yet.

There was still work to be done...