The Jigsaw Café – Part 1: Corner Pieces

The jigsaw had been on the corner table for three weeks, and nobody could finish it.

Marit found it on a wet Tuesday, when she ducked into the café on the cobbled square to escape the rain. It was a tiny, warm, wood-panelled place, smelling of cocoa and waffles, with bay windows and a lopsided clock. On the corner table, between two armchairs, a thousand-piece puzzle lay half-done: a harbour at sunset, with sailing boats and a lighthouse. A bowl of loose pieces sat to one side.

"You're allowed to help," said a voice.

A man in the opposite armchair looked up from a book. He was thirty-one, slim, with dark untidy hair and a gentle, absent-minded smile, in a grey cardigan and round glasses. Lukas, as it would turn out, was a bookbinder who worked across the square.

"What's missing?" she asked.

"The sky."

"All of it?"

"Most of it. Seventy pieces. They've vanished."

"That's suspicious."

"I suspect the barista."

She laughed. She was twenty-eight, a translator on a short visit to the city, in a yellow raincoat, with wet curls and an irresistible curiosity. She sat down and picked up a piece. It was blue, with a curl of cloud.

They worked in companionable silence for an hour. Rain streamed down the windows. The café filled and emptied around them. He made small, apologetic remarks about edges and corners; she hummed. By the time the afternoon light turned gold, they had fitted thirty pieces of sky.

"Where's the rest?" said Marit.

"I think someone took them."

"Who steals jigsaw pieces?"

"A romantic," said Lukas. "Or a very bad person."

She laughed again. He stared at his hands, pink.

"Can I ask you something?" said Marit.

"Yes."

"Will you be here tomorrow?"

"Green?" said Lukas, a piece, an edge.

"Green," said Marit, smiling. "Very green. Bring your glasses. We'll find the last piece."

Continue the story: Part 2 – The Last Piece.