The message came while Oskari was tying his shoes.
Mom: Text me when you're on your way.
Mom: And come home safe.
He stared at the screen longer than necessary, thumb hovering as if the right response required thought. It usually did. Words felt heavier when they were written.
Okay, he typed back.
After a moment, he added: I will.
The dogs followed him into the hallway, nails clicking softly against the floor. One of them sat directly on his foot, tail sweeping back and forth with quiet determination. Oskari sighed—not annoyed, just tired in a way that settled deep.
"Soon," he murmured, crouching to scratch behind warm ears. "I'll be back soon."
They didn't understand the words. Only the tone. That was enough.
From the kitchen came the familiar sounds of evening: a kettle set down too hard, a chair scraping against the floor.
"Scarf," his grandmother called. "It's snowing again."
"I have it," Oskari answered.
Aino appeared in the doorway anyway, eyes sharp despite her age, cardigan buttoned wrong. She looked him over the way she always did, as if checking for cracks only she could see.
"You eat today?" she asked.
"Yes."
She didn't ask what. She never did.
At the table sat his great-grandmother, Elvi, hands folded around a mug she'd already forgotten to drink from. She smiled when she saw him, the kind of smile that filled in gaps reality no longer bothered with.
"You're late," she said brightly. "Your brother was just here."
Oskari smiled back. "I know."
There was no brother. There never had been. But Elvi looked pleased, and that mattered more than truth.
His mother, Marja, stood near the counter, phone in hand, pretending not to watch him put on his coat. She always did this—hovered without hovering, worried without asking. When he zipped up, she finally spoke.
"Message me," she said. "When you're close."
"I will."
She hesitated, then added more quietly, "Don't rush."
He nodded. He always nodded.
Outside, the cold pressed in immediately. Snow fell in thin, patient strands, drifting sideways under the streetlights. The city looked softer like this, its edges blurred by mist, its sounds dulled before they could fully exist.
Oskari walked with his hands in his pockets, shoulders slightly hunched—not only from the cold, but from habit. He'd learned early that taking up less space made things easier. People noticed him less. Expected less.
Most days were like this.
School when he could manage it. Work when he could get it. Conversations that slid past him instead of including him. Silences that stretched too long, then snapped shut when someone else filled them.
People called him polite. Quiet. Sometimes strange.
No one ever said lonely out loud.
He didn't blame them. Loneliness was an awkward thing to name. It made people uncomfortable, like pointing at a crack in the wall everyone had agreed not to see.
Home was different. The dogs didn't care if he spoke too slowly or missed a joke. They pressed their weight against him, solid and warm, as if anchoring him to the world. Aino listened instead of fixing. Marja worried in small, practical ways—food, sleep, weather.
And Elvi told stories that didn't always belong to him, but he accepted them anyway.
That was enough.
It had to be.
Before leaving the street, Oskari stopped near the small convenience store on the corner. The windows were fogged over, shelves inside barely visible through the glass. He stood there for a moment, watching his reflection blur and sharpen as cars passed behind him.
His phone was still in his hand.
He opened a message thread he hadn't touched in weeks.
Jere
The cursor blinked, patient. Waiting.
Oskari thought about typing Hey.
Thought about typing How've you been?
Thought about explaining himself, then erased the explanation before it existed.
In the end, he typed something smaller.
Did you ever finish that game you were talking about?
He stared at the message, thumb hovering over send. It felt intrusive somehow, like knocking on a door too late at night.
After a few seconds, he locked the screen without sending it.
Maybe another time.
Inside the store, the cashier laughed at something on his phone. The sound was quick, unguarded. Oskari felt a faint pull in his chest—not envy, exactly. More like distance.
He stepped back, breath fogging the glass, then turned away.
Home was close now.
That mattered more.
His phone buzzed as he reached the end of the street.
Mom: You almost home?
He stopped, watching snow gather at the curb, melt, then freeze again into dull glass.
Not yet, he typed.
Soon.
The crossing light ahead was red.
He waited.
Cars passed slowly, tires hissing against wet asphalt. Someone crossed early, slipping between headlights. Oskari stayed where he was, a step back from the curb, rocking faintly on his heels.
It was fine.
He wasn't in a hurry.
He slid his headphones down around his neck instead of putting them back on. Without music, the city felt farther away, as if he were watching it through glass.
The light took longer than usual.
He didn't mind.
When it finally changed, he stepped forward with the others, careful with his footing. The road looked ordinary—slick, but manageable. Brake lights glowed red through the mist as cars slowed.
Halfway across, something felt wrong.
Not fear.
Not panic.
Just a delay—like his thoughts were arriving a fraction of a second too late.
Headlights bloomed brighter than they should have.
There was a sound—muted, wrong—and then the world tipped violently.
Cold came first.
Snow pressed against his cheek, melting into something uncomfortably warm. The ground was too hard, too close. Lights smeared together above him, amber and white, refusing to stay still.
He tried to breathe.
It didn't work the way it was supposed to.
Voices surfaced somewhere nearby. Someone knelt down. Someone said something. None of it felt close enough to matter.
His thoughts drifted instead.
Marja telling him not to rush.
Aino reminding him to eat.
Elvi smiling, mistaken but kind.
And the dogs—waiting by the door, confused by how long it was taking.
A dull ache settled in his chest, heavier than the pain.
They'd worry.
His lips moved on their own. The word barely formed, more breath than sound.
"…sorry."
He wasn't sure who it was meant for.
Snow kept falling. The cold deepened, then softened at the edges. Oskari lifted his hand without thinking, fingers curling slightly, as if reaching for someone in the dark.
For a brief moment, the cold eased.
Not warmth.
Just less cold.
It confused him. His hand trembled, then slipped back into the snow.
Sound thinned. Light blurred.
The city went on.
And somewhere beyond the quiet, something vast noticed him—not because he was chosen, but because he had spent his whole life waiting to be noticed at all.