Abandoned Things
written by: Dmitry Berkut
His wife left in March. Since then, Francisco had begun collecting abandoned things. Not trash. He knew the difference well. Trash is thrown away. These things were left behind, as if passed on to someone invisible.
A cup on the roof of a car outside the supermarket. White, with a broken handle, but placed carefully, as if the driver meant to return. Francisco wrote it down: March 15, Saint Anthony Street. He took the cup home.
A shoe in the park — the left one, brown, with a worn-down heel. It lay on a bench, toe pointing east. March 22, São Roque Park, sunny.
A watch at the bus stop, still ticking, showing four fifteen. April 3, Republic Avenue, windy.
In his study, he put up shelves. The air smelled of pine and other people’s lives. Stacks from floor to ceiling, each thing with a tag. Neighbors heard him talking in the evenings. Asking the shoe for directions. Thanking the cup for company. But he knew: things weren’t simply lost. They left when their time was over. Or arrived when time began.
He found the lighter at the entrance to the café Brasileira. Silver, heavy, engraved: F.A. — for patience. His initials. He spun the wheel — sparks, the smell of tobacco. Francisco didn’t smoke. He wrote it down: May 18, Sá da Bandeira Street, fog. Placed it on the shelf.
On Thursday, after rain, a woman sat down at his table in the café. She ordered coffee and took out a pack of cigarettes. Opened her purse, searched for matches — none.
“I saw some on the counter,” Francisco said. “I’ll bring them.”
He stood, stepped away. The woman smiled. Her eyes were gray, with a scar above the left brow. A trace of lipstick on the cup. They started talking. She worked in an antique shop. Loved old things — those that outlived their owners.
They met for two weeks.
“I have something,” she said in the third. She paused, then took out a small box. “I don’t know why. But this is for you. I know you don’t smoke, but this thing… it feels like it’s been waiting.”
Francisco opened the box. The same lighter. Silver, with the engraving. He held it — the same weight, the same cool metal. Flicked — spark, smell of tobacco.
“Where did the engraving come from?” He tried to keep his voice steady.
“I had it made. Francisco Alves — for patience. You are a patient man. Otherwise, you wouldn’t collect lost things.”
He blinked. Slipped the lighter into his pocket — where it had already been once.
At home, Francisco went to the shelf. In the familiar place, there was emptiness — a rectangle of bare wood in the dust. He ran a finger across the trace, opened the journal: May began with a clean line, as if the lighter had never existed. The mark on the shelf said otherwise. He tried to remember, but memory slipped away, as if it too obeyed the new rules. He spun the wheel. Flame flared.
Now that the story was found, the past arranged itself: the thing was no longer lost — it had become a gift.
After that, the findings changed. A pen with his initials — he would buy one in a month. A scarf, the woman with gray eyes would knit the following winter. A key to the apartment they would move into a year later. He learned to tell them apart: things from the past smelled of dust and other people’s lives. Things from the future — of possibility, like the air before a storm.
Francisco kept writing. Dates came out of order. Things arrived before their time. They waited.
Sometimes he found sad ones. A child’s mitten on a swing — red, with an embroidered reindeer. It smelled of the future — but fragile, trembling. He turned away.
Broken glasses. A wedding ring. He wrote them down, too, but never took them home. Some things had to remain lost — their time had not yet come. Or never would. He left them untouched, only watching.
He always carried the lighter. Didn’t smoke, sometimes flicked the wheel. The flame lit up the empty room. Or not empty — it was hard to say for sure.
- Abandoned Things - January 31, 2026
- Meteorite - September 10, 2025
