***

“Small World” succeeds because it whispers its tension rather than shouting. It lets the reader sit in uncertainty, much like the narrator himself. There are no dramatic revelations—just a slowly shifting sense that something isn’t quite right. The story rewards close reading and lingers in the mind, like a half-remembered face from the past.

***

"Small World"

By Harry Arabian

It was Sunday morning—the one day each year I accompanied my wife, Marie, to church. It was a holiday tradition of sorts. The pews were full, the stained glass glowed, and the sermon—eternal as ever—finally ended, releasing us to the more tolerable part of the service: the social welcome event. It was time for coffee, cookies, and chit-chat with the congregation.

As Marie and I made our way toward the refreshment table, a gentleman in his late sixties approached, smiling warmly.

“Wasn’t that sermon something?” he said, raising an eyebrow. “Too bad the coffee hour doesn’t rise to the same heights.”

I chuckled, appreciating the dry humor. “That’s exactly the kind of thing my high school physics teacher would say—sharp wit, always a little sideways.”

“Funny you say that—I was a science teacher myself,” he replied, still smiling.

“Oh? Which high school?”

“Central High.”

My eyebrows lifted. “That’s my school! I had a Mr. O’Brien for physics. Never forgot him.”

He tilted his head slightly, eyes twinkling. “You always liked the back row, didn’t you?”

I paused. That was true. But it was also a pretty safe guess. Still, something in the way he said it made me feel observed.

He nodded slowly. “I am O’Brien.”

For a moment, the church faded around me. Could this really be the Mr. O’Brien who once launched chalk at sleeping students and taught us about Newton’s laws using a skateboard and a sack of flour?

“I can’t believe it,” I said, shaking his hand. “Small world.”

We exchanged numbers, promising to catch up soon. As he turned to speak with someone else, I looked at him again. His face was smooth, with only a few gentle creases near the eyes. His salt-and-pepper hair looked almost too perfectly balanced—like someone had picked the shade from a catalog. He was spry, upright, with a voice that hadn’t thinned.

Marie, who had remained quiet throughout the exchange, leaned in close.

“How can he be your teacher?” she whispered. “He’s the same age as you. I smell con man.”

I glanced back at him, now chatting with another parishioner. The O’Brien I remembered had graying temples, deep-set eyes, and a limp from a skiing accident. This man didn’t look the part. But thirty years had passed. People change.

People change, I murmured, more to myself than to Marie.

Just then, two teenagers—Amy and Al, if I remembered correctly—came bounding up with chocolate chip cookies in hand. The teens spotted Marie and threw their arms around her in a sugar-fueled hug.

“Glad to see you kids,” Marie said warmly. “Are you here with your mother?”

They pointed toward a woman across the room, holding court like a reigning monarch.

“Our grandma’s over there.”

Marie’s expression shifted instantly. She leaned into me, eyes narrowing. “The gossip queen. Let’s leave. Now.”

I didn’t argue. We slipped out quietly, the murmur of conversations fading behind us. As we stepped into the cool Sunday air, I glanced back once at the church doors.

I wasn’t sure whether I had just met a long-lost teacher or a very convincing imposter. But small worlds don’t explain everything.

Some surprises shake your memory. Others wait for their next Sunday.