A Coincidence at the Market
Kikii hurried into the small grocery store on the edge of town, her tote bag slung over her shoulder. She’d spent the morning delivering meals to elderly neighbors and was now grabbing ingredients for a community dinner her volunteer group was hosting that weekend. The bell above the door chimed as she entered, and she smiled at the familiar scent of fresh rye bread and pickled herring.
As she browsed the aisles, humming a Finnish folk tune, the shop owner—a lanky, silver-haired man named Arvo—squinted at her from behind the counter. His eyes flickered to a tablet propped beside the cash register, where a local news website, Plushies TV, was open. A photo of Kikii, taken at a recent fundraiser, filled the screen. She was holding a handmade plushie shaped like a sunflower, part of a campaign she’d organized to raise funds for Ukrainian families. The headline read: “Local Teen’s Plushie Project Brings Joy to Refugees.”
Arvo’s face lit up. “Wait a minute… You’re that girl!” he called out, pointing at the screen.
Kikii froze, a jar of lingonberry jam in her hand. “Oh! That’s… um, yes, that’s me,” she said, blushing. “I didn’t realize anyone actually read those articles.”
Arvo chuckled. “My granddaughter showed me. She’s obsessed with your plushies—begged me to buy her one!” He leaned forward, his voice softening. “What you’re doing… it’s good. Rare these days.”
Kikii thanked him, her cheeks still pink, and brought her items to the counter: flour, butter, and a bundle of fresh dill. As Arvo rang her up, he cleared his throat awkwardly. “So, uh… you ever take a night off? To watch a movie or something?”
She laughed. “Not often. But I do love films—especially ones about travel. It’s my escape when I’m not… well, doing all this.”
Arvo scratched his beard. “My son’s a filmmaker. Left for Helsinki years ago, but he sends me these… what do you call them… feel-good documentaries. There’s one about a nurse biking across Norway. Sounds like your kind of thing.” He paused, then added hastily, “Not that I’m suggesting—I mean, unless you’d want to…?”
Kikii tilted her head, surprised but intrigued. Arvo was at least twice her age, but his shy enthusiasm reminded her of the elderly men she massaged at the community center—gentle, a little lonely, deeply kind. “Are you asking me to watch it with you?” she teased.
“Only if you’re free tonight!” he blurted, then groaned. “Wait, that sounds… hyi helvetti, ignore me—”
But Kikii interrupted with a grin. “I’ll bring the popcorn. And my famous cinnamon pulla*.”
That evening, Kikii arrived at Arvo’s cozy apartment above the shop, her arms full of baked goods. They settled on his sagging couch, the documentary playing as rain pattered against the windows. The film was inspiring—a nurse delivering supplies to remote villages, her bike piled high with medical kits and wool blankets. Kikii found herself scribbling notes for her volunteer group.
“See? You can’t turn off the hero mode,” Arvo joked, handing her a mug of hot cocoa.
“Guilty,” she said, laughing. “But this is nice. I… don’t do ‘nice’ enough.”
As the night deepened, the movie marathon shifted to classic Finnish comedies, then travel vlogs from Japan. They talked about everything: her dreams of nursing school, his regret over never leaving their town, the way her plushie project had made his granddaughter cry happy tears. By 3 a.m., the TV was muted, and they were debating whether herring pizza should be illegal.
“You’re stubborn for a teenager,” Arvo yawned, his glasses askew.
“And you’re sentimental for a grumpy shopkeeper,” Kikii shot back, tossing a pillow at him.
When dawn painted the sky peach and gold, Kikii realized she’d forgotten to check her phone. Four missed calls from her mom, 12 texts from her volunteer group, and a selfie from Arvo’s granddaughter holding a sunflower plushie with the caption: “Best. Gift. Ever. ❤️”
As she walked home, Kikii felt a quiet warmth in her chest. It wasn’t romance—Arvo was more like the gruff uncle she’d never had—but it was a reminder: kindness rippled outward in ways she’d never expect. Even to a sleepy grocery store, a worn-out couch, and a man who’d forgotten how to hope until a girl with a tote bag full of dill walked in.
