Before you fall, you never realize how many textures the floor is made of.
Julian lived in Notting Hill until he was ten.
W11 postcode. Black enamel numbers with gold trim on the door.
Their house was the top floor of a narrow three-story terraced building—not large, but perfectly proportioned.
The living room had Edwardian windows, triple-glazed.
In the summer, they didn't use air conditioning. The wind moved through the bay trees in the front garden, pushing the curtains into slow, careful arcs.
The kitchen was semi-open. White wood cabinetry. Brass handles.
The overhead light was a wrought-iron antique his mother had hauled back from a flea market in Brussels.
She cooked twice a week. On the other days, a part-time housekeeper reheated food.
They didn't employ full-time staff—not because they couldn't afford it, but because that wasn't the aesthetic.
The housekeeper came Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays. She changed linens, disinfected the bathroom, polished the piano.
The piano was a Steinway upright. It stood in the brightest corner of the living room.
Julian had been practicing thirty minutes a day since the age of four.
His mother never hovered. But after he finished, she would ask:
"Did it go flat?"
Not as a correction.
As ritual.
Most of his clothes were handpicked by his mother.
Wool knitwear from Scotland.
The labels were always removed, but he remembered the patterns.
His shirts were striped, never loud.
You could tell, at a glance, they weren't from a chain store.
Shoes were Clarks leather oxfords. Paired with cotton socks.
Sock drawers were season-coded.
She'd labeled them: "Spring / Autumn" – "Do Not Mix."
On his desk: a printed timetable—piano, writing, reading, bathing, sleep.
His father had written it in blue ink.
Each letter shaped like it belonged on legal stationery.
There was one more item on the schedule:
Sundays, 2:00–3:00 p.m., "Japanese Classes"
Julian started Japanese classes at age six, held in the basement of a Japanese cultural center on Finchley Road.
The teacher, Tamura, spoke softly but corrected harshly.
The classroom was tatami-matted. Shoes off.
Julian slipped on the first day—socks too smooth.
Tamura shook his head:
"You walk like a foreigner."
His father insisted he go.
He never accompanied him.
He simply sent prepaid application forms and bank transfers in brown leather envelopes.
They were always addressed to "WATANABE." Never "Julian."
The curriculum wasn't cartoons.
It wasn't conversation.
It was honorifics. Grammar.
Keigo. Clause order.
Stroke order for kanji.
One lesson drilled the phrase:
"お世話になっております. (Thank you for your help.)"
Tamura said: "This is how every email begins. No exceptions."
That night, Julian copied it out four full pages on lined manuscript paper.
His wrist cramped by the end.
He once asked his father:
"Why can't I learn what the other kids are learning? Like 'Hello, my name is Julian'?"
His father, flipping a file, didn't look up. He said:
"You don't need people to know who you are.
You just need to say it better than they can."
1994. Notting Hill, a three-story Edwardian brick townhouse
Julian was ten.
The house smelled like Penhaligon's and lost routines.
His mother returned the perfume bottle to its box—dark blue, gold trim—and placed it above the piano.
Not spraying it.
Sealing it.
His father still in court clothes, creased at the knees.
His mother in beige cashmere, legs together, hands folded like she was ready for a recital.
On the table:
A porcelain teacup, half full.
A crumpled legal envelope.
A swan puzzle, missing its beak.
They weren't arguing.
They were redistributing assets.
"You'll move out next week," his father said. "I'll leave a card."
"You take the prints. I'll keep the speakers."
Julian sat in the corner, arms around knees,
watching the envelope's bent corner like it was bleeding.
He wanted to ask:
"What about me?"
But he didn't.
Because even at ten, he knew:
This wasn't a conversation he was allowed to be part of.
An hour later, his father packed a few books and left.
His mother changed for rehearsal.
Julian stood alone in the hall.
In the kitchen, pots clinked.
He realized something:
This house would never argue again.
Because it wasn't one house anymore.
So why did the system choose him?
Not because he was smart.
Not because he was obedient.
But because he was obsessed enough to build knives out of numbers.
Because he stared at the market like it was a god, and whispered:
"I see your cracks."
He wasn't mad.
Not yet.
But the system doesn't select the sane.
It selects the ghosts who talk back.
After the divorce, the classes stopped. No discussion. No explanation.
That autumn, Tamura sent an "Autumn Term Update" by post.
The paper curled at the edges.
His mother glanced at it and said softly:
"Your father didn't cover that part."
She tossed it in the bin.
Julian never copied kanji again.
But he never forgot "お世話になっております."
He could still write it, eyes closed.
Kana to kanji. Full stroke order.
That winter, his father sent him a Christmas gift.
A silver ballpoint pen, engraved with his surname.
In Japanese.
渡邉
There was no card. No name. No return address. Just the pen.
Julian never used it. He put it in a drawer and left it there.
After the divorce, the house was sold.
His mother took him to Crouch End.
North London. A rented walk-up in a fading brick block.
The carpet was faded.
The stairwell railings were chipped.
The buzzer didn't ring—it buzzed. A low, electric hum with no tone.
The kitchen was a sealed rectangle. Three visible cracks ran through the floor tiles.
The dish rack was from IKEA. One corner cracked. Taped over with clear adhesive.
They only bought half-price milk. Discounted yogurt. Frozen pasta.
His mother began keeping a budget notebook.
Each month was split into four weeks:
"Meat £15"
"Eggs £6"
"Julian School Lunch £20"
He stopped bringing lunch from home.
Started eating the free school meal:
Chicken nuggets, baked beans, mashed potatoes.
He learned to use bread to mop up the tomato sauce,
so the tray looked clean. So no one noticed him.
The wool sweaters were boxed.
Mother said, "Save them for proper days."
He wore a Primark hoodie now. Cotton trousers.
Grey. Slightly oversized. Easier to blend in.
His new school was a local comprehensive. Seven minutes' walk.
The lights flickered.
The whiteboard was streaked.
Teachers spoke slowly, especially during phonics.
Exercise books were stamped with cartoon faces.
He learned not to raise his hand.
Learned to laugh when others did, even when he didn't understand.
At lunch, he sat by the window.
Didn't speak. Just listened.
Football. Games. Fights. Snacks.
He didn't dislike them.
He didn't like them either.
He simply knew he wasn't from their world.
They sold the piano.
Replaced it with an electric keyboard—three broken keys.
Mother insisted he still practice.
"Not all playing is for performance," she said.
She taught viola part-time at a local arts club.
Twelve pounds an hour.
Her students rarely showed.
When they didn't, she sat in the corner, scrolling her phone.
Her scent changed.
No more Penhaligon's.
Just dish soap and old cashmere.
Julian didn't say anything.
He simply adjusted.
At night, he laid out his clothes for the next day.
Second button done. Third left open—so the shirt wouldn't crease when he sat.
He started writing lists.
Structured his time in Excel.
Copied the format his father used.
That, at least, he remembered perfectly.
Before you fall, you don't realize
how many textures the floor is made of.