It's Still Life

The Keeper of Lost Things – Micro-dosing 150µg (150 words)

The drawer was narrow, oak-lined, and smelled of camphor and the kind of winters people used to name. Inside: a brass key, a single pearl earring, and a postcard from Marseille—unsigned, unclaimed.

Each morning, Mrs. Havelock touched them with care, her fingers reading their weight like prayer.

“Not gone,” she murmured, “just paused. Some things wait better than people.”

The key had once fit a diary long turned to ash. The earring still held the echo of laughter that had once made her turn her head. The postcard’s turquoise sea had faded into milk and fog.

One evening, she forgot. The drawer stayed closed. Rain stitched its fingers down the glass. The kettle whistled until it boiled dry.

The forgotten things—too proud to mourn—let dust take them gently, like snow on old shoulders. Their stories softened, like coins worn faceless, or breath caught in the folds of curtains no longer drawn.