For twenty years, Bernard bought the same newspaper from the same kiosk on Marchmont Street. The man who ran it was named Stefan. They had exchanged perhaps four hundred words in twenty years.
One Tuesday in October, the kiosk wasn't there.
It wasn't gone — it was just closed. Stefan had perhaps taken a day off, something Bernard had never considered possible. Bernard stood on the pavement for longer than he should have, then walked an extra two blocks to a newsagent and bought the same paper from a woman who did not know him and did not hand him his change in the particular way Stefan did.
The paper was the same. The news was the same. By the time Bernard was at his desk, he could not have said exactly what was different.
But something had shifted. He noticed the radiator in his office for the first time in years. He ate lunch outside, which he never did. He called his sister, which he did every Sunday but not on Tuesdays. She said he sounded different and he said he was fine, which was true.
The kiosk was there the next morning, Stefan in his usual position, handing Bernard his change in the usual way. Bernard said took a day off? and Stefan said doctor's appointment and that was that.
But Bernard had seen the gap now. The routine had been so complete that it had become invisible — a groove so deep the walls were above his head. The one morning outside the groove showed him the walls.
He didn't change his routine. He kept buying the paper from Stefan until Stefan retired, and then from whoever came after. But he knew the walls were there now. He looked up occasionally. Sometimes he called his sister on Tuesdays.