And Every Morning the Way Home Gets Longer and Longer

by Fredrik Backman

Noah closes his eyes, stops the tears in their tracks, and forces them to cower beneath his eyelids. Snow starts to fall in the square, the same way very small children cry, like it had barely started at first but soon like it would never end.

They were sixteen and even the snow was happy that morning, falling soap-bubble light and landing on cold cheeks as though the flakes were gently trying to wake someone they loved. She stood in front of him with January in her hair and he was lost. She was the first person in his life that he couldn’t work out, though he spent every minute of it after that day trying. “I always knew who I was with you. You were my shortcut,” Grandpa confides.

“How did you fall in love with her?” the boy asks. Grandpa’s hands land with one palm on his own knee and one on the boy’s. “She got lost in my heart, I think. Couldn’t find her way out. Your grandma always had a terrible sense of direction. She could get lost on an escalator.”