He was never at the heart of things and never on the outside. He was the sort of person who was just there.
Nor did he remember so very much about his growing up;
he had never been the sort of man who went around remembering things unless there was a need for it.
He remembered that he was quite happy and that for a few years afterwards he wasn’t—that was about it.
And he remembered the sums. The numbers, filling his head.
Remembered how he longed for their mathematics lessons at school.
Maybe for the others they were a sufferance, but not for him.
He didn’t know why, and didn’t speculate about it either.
He’d never understood the need to go around stewing on why things turned out the way they did.
You are what you are and you do what you do, and that was good enough for Ove.
He was seven years old when his mum called it a day one early August morning.
She worked at a chemicals plant. In those days people didn’t know much about air safety, Ove realized later.
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