The whole drive home, Arthur kept glancing at the suitcase. It sat beside him like a silent passenger. Each time he stopped at a red light, he wondered who had owned it. A spy? A rich traveler? A writer? Someone who had crossed the world and then somehow vanished without their luggage?
By the time he reached his apartment, his mind was full of wild ideas. He knew they were silly, but he enjoyed them anyway. For years, Arthur’s days had been predictable. Breakfast at eight. Walk at ten. Tea at four. Dinner alone. Bed before eleven.
This suitcase had broken that pattern. It had made him curious. It had made him feel awake. That was why he cleared his dining table, fetched his reading glasses, and placed the suitcase under the warm yellow lamp. He had no idea that in a few minutes, he would be backing away from it in fear.