The Man Who Remembered Me

Part 1

Thomas William Hiddleston had a problem.

Admittedly, it was not a particularly grand or dramatic problem. It lacked the theatrical gravity of a Shakespearean tragedy or the existential weight of a world-ending plot line.

His dry cleaning simply needed doing.

Normally, this sort of domestic errand occurred in the tranquil background of his life without requiring much deliberate thought. Clothes disappeared from wooden hangers, clothes returned wrapped in crisp plastic, and somewhere in between presumably existed a perfectly ordinary human being with access to industrial quantities of steam.

"I'll take the dry cleaning," Luke offered, reaching for the armful of wool suits resting over the back of the sofa.

"No."

Luke paused, looking at him with mild amusement.

"No?"

"No. No, no, no," Tom said quickly, gathering the garments himself. "I'll do it."

"It's dry cleaning, Tom," Luke reminded him dryly.

"Yes, I am well aware."

"I'm only offering because you apparently suffered an existential crisis trying to find a local shop twenty minutes ago."

"I did not suffer an existential crisis," Tom protested, pulling his coat on. "I was merely deliberating."

Luke raised a single, sceptical eyebrow.

Tom firmly adjusted the suits over his arm. "I'll do it."

Giuseppe's was situated precisely three streets away.

Tom had located it the entirely conventional way this time: Google Maps on his phone. No mysterious doorway buttons, no disappearing floors, no mischievous Norse gods lurking in the background. Just standard London pavement beneath his shoes and a clear sky overhead.

As he walked down the avenue, a sudden rhythmic click made him look up. A photographer stood by a newsagent's kiosk, lens trained straight at him. Tom maintained a neutral, pleasant posture, suppressing a sigh. Yes, yes, look at me—a Hollywood actor doing normal person things, he thought to himself with quiet humour.

Then he saw the storefront.

It was a modest Italian dry cleaner wedged snugly between a bustling café and a small shop selling mobile phone accessories. GIUSEPPE'S was painted across the front window in faded gold lettering that looked as though it had been gilded there around 1964 and steadfastly refused to wear away.

A small brass bell chimed cheerfully as Tom pushed open the door.

Soft music crackled from an old transistor radio in the corner—a synth-heavy 1980s pop melody singing melodramatically about dreams and distant shores.

An elderly man with silver hair and warm eyes appeared from behind a dense carousel rail of plastic-wrapped coats.

"Buongiorno," the man greeted with a genial nod.

"Good morning," Tom replied, stepping up to the wooden counter.

The tailor glanced down at the dark suits slung over Tom's arm.

"Dry clean?"

"Yes, please."

"Molto bene."

Giuseppe took the garments gently, inspecting the care labels and seams with the meticulous, solemn concentration of a surgeon preparing for an operation.

While the shopkeeper worked, Tom let his eyes wander around the small room.

The wooden panelling on the walls was almost entirely covered in framed photographs of various sizes and ages.