The Wrong Number

In bold: key vocabulary. Tap any word in the text to see its definition.

It was a snowy night in February. Hana was on the sofa with a book and a cup of hot chocolate when her phone rang. It was almost eleven o'clock, and the number was unknown.

"Clara? Is that you?" said a man's voice. "I think you have the wrong number," said Hana. "Oh, I'm so sorry!" he said. "I dialed the wrong number. I wanted to call my sister." There was a short silence. Then he laughed. "Well, since I have you on the phone... is it snowing where you are?"

Hana looked out of the window. "Yes, a lot!" she said. They started to talk about the snow, then about winter, then about their cities. His city was colder than hers, and his street was quieter. "I'm Oliver, by the way," he said. "Hana," she said. After forty minutes, they said good night. Hana couldn't stop smiling.

The next night, at eleven o'clock, her phone rang again. "Hi, it's Oliver," said the voice. "I think I have the wrong number again." "Really?" said Hana. "Are you sure?" "No," he said. "It's on purpose this time." They both laughed.

For three weeks, they talked every night. He told her about his job in a bookshop, and she told him about her terrible cooking. His voice was warmer than her old heater, she thought. But they never asked the big question, because they were both a little shy.

One night, Oliver finally asked it. "Hana, can we meet? There's a cafe near your house. I can take the train on Sunday." "How will I know you?" she asked. "I'll be the one holding a phone," he said. Hana smiled. "Me too."

On Sunday, two people were sitting at different tables in the cafe, each with a phone in their hand. They looked at each other. "Wrong number?" he said. "Right number," she said.