Inventory of Lost Items

At the end of the old street, there is a door you can see only after losing something.

Inside sits a man who wipes down an oil lamp that will never shine, day after day.

His name is Chen Mo. He runs this lost-and-found office.

He doesn’t take money. He takes all the interest that accrued while you were without the thing you lost: your guilt, your waiting, and the apology you owe someone.

A businessman lost a promise. The interest was the lifetime his business partner’s widow spent waiting.

A boxer lost the ability to feel pain. The interest was the ten years his daughter spent suffering in his place.

A seven-year-old girl lost her fear. The abandonment cannot be undone.

Later, Chen Mo wrote his own name on the last page of the register.

“Registrant: Chen Mo. Item: Father. Notes: Went missing in the winter when I was seven. Never came home.”

He still doesn’t know that the doll girl in the corner has a crack on her left cheek. She is waiting, too.

And the one she’s waiting for is him.