Come June [ h.s. ]

2

2
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Harry wasn't expecting to do much with the new day. As he took his naturally long strides past all the different window shops, he pondered over the fact that, other than his mother, nobody had called; or even left a text at 12:00am.

There was a time when Harry would count down until midnight and then check his phone to see numerous happy birthday messages, wishing him well.

Happiness and good will.

He assumed, whilst adjusting his wool hat, that people felt bad about reminding someone of their retirement from the twenties. His friends couldn't have just not cared... Or worse, forgotten.

Maybe they just thought, poor bloke. Thirty years old and as solitary as an oyster.

Besides, it was still quite early, and it was possible that they'd all just gone to sleep at a decent time and missed his midnight congratulations. Right?

Yes, he thought. That had to be the reason.

It was shortly after he'd gone past the pastry shop that he stopped walking. The delightful smell that had wafted his way had put him under a spell; he turned around and headed back that direction. A birthday was a birthday, after all. He might as well treat himself to something.

When Harry was young, his mother would make chocolate chip pancakes every morning on his birthday. She'd stack them up into a gooey tower, and stick his candles on the top. And his whole family would sing to him, and he'd swing his sock-clad feet from the kitchen chair with green eyes shining and hair a mess.

He longed to revisit days like that as he walked into the pastry shop.

The young man behind the counter, a gawky-looking fellow, was scratching at one of his elbows as Harry approached. Then, upon noticing that there was a new customer, he awkwardly straightened himself out and leaned up against the register.

"Can I help you?" he asked, letting out a long yawn. Harry smiled a little.

"Tough morning?"

"Always."

"Yeah, you're not the only one," he mumbled, messing with the buttons on his coat. It was a habit of his; always needing to keep his hands busy, to have something to occupy himself with. "I'll have an apple tart, please."

The kid nodded and plucked one out from the case, putting it in a small blue box and ringing it up for him. In the background, music was playing quietly. Harry didn't know the song; it was mostly instrumental.

"Thank you," he said with acute politeness as he was handed the box.

"Not a problem," the boy sighed in his post-slumber fuzz. "Have a nice day, mate."

"You too."

And just like that, he was out on the streets again. He could've sat down if he wanted to, at one of the many empty tables outside. But he didn't feel like it today. The seats would be wet, and Harry didn't mind eating while on the move, anyway.

He began at a reasonable pace, but slowed down continuously as things caught his eye. Harry loved to look through the shop windows; he used to peep through them all the time when he was little. His mother would desperately try to keep him in her sights, and fail time and time again. He was a crafty child. Although his boyish kindness radiated wherever he went, he was a bit of a loose canon.

Not anymore, he thought to himself, although he still felt vulnerable from time to time. Vulnerability wasn't something he feared, as long as he didn't show it. He had once read a poem (Harry was quite fond of poetry, and owned boxes of works that he'd annotated, all marked up with underlined passages), which said that "within all people, a child sleeps."