The Records
(Velvet Warpath – drawer Four)
You opened this one yourself.
No hesitation, no glance in my direction — just the sound of wood sliding out and the faintest clink of metal inside.
At first it looked empty except for a single small key. You knew it immediately; it belonged to a desk you’d left behind in another room of your life. You didn’t ask how it got here.
When you turned it in your palm, something else shifted in the drawer — a folded piece of paper, creased so sharply it almost cut your fingers.
Your handwriting.
A list.
Minor annoyances. Small grievances. The kinds of things you’d laugh about over wine.
Except here, in your own words, they weren’t funny. They were weighted. Patterns of absence. Slights you’d buried so well you didn’t even remember writing them.
Bunny leaned on the frame, arms crossed.
“You keep better records than you think.”
I didn’t have to say anything. You read the list twice, slower the second time. The air between us shifted.
When you slid the paper back into the drawer, the key was still in your hand.
You didn’t return it.