A suitcase clicks shut… a sound like teeth in a crowded station. At dusk, on a rain-slicked platform, a porter pries open the unclaimed case. As train brakes screech, porcelain molars rattle inside a velvet pouch. A smudged tag bears an impossible address, repeated in two languages. No one steps forward to claim it.
The chill comes not from the object, but its signature. A ritualistic hint, a ...
