A Man Called Ove

by Fredrik Backman

“Nothing works when you’re not at home.”

He was a man of black and white. And she was color. All the color he had.

Maybe to her destiny was “something”; that was none of his business. But to him, destiny was “someone.”

She often said that “all roads lead to something you were always predestined to do.” And for her, perhaps, it was something. But for Ove it was someone.

He had never been spontaneous before in his life. But when he saw her it was as if something malfunctioned.

She just smiled, said that she loved books more than anything, and started telling him excitedly what each of the ones in her lap was about. And Ove realized that he wanted to hear her talking about the things she loved for the rest of his life.

Ove had never been asked how he lived before he met her. But if anyone had asked him, he would have answered that he didn’t.

“If you can’t depend on someone being on time, you shouldn’t trust ’em with anything more important either,”

And now she stood outside the station with his flowers pressed happily to her breast, in that red cardigan of hers, making the rest of the world look as if it were made in grayscale.