HEARTLESSLY LEFT

On my first day at the local Lost & Found, I expected a warehouse full of umbrellas. In theory, people lose umbrellas. In practice, umbrellas lose people. They detach at the slightest hint of sunshine and start a new life without regret.

Instead, I walked into a storage room that looked like a museum of lives people had decided not to finish. Every object had a barcode, a shelf, and an unnecessarily long form. Bureaucracy, I soon learned, doesn’t solve loss; it simply files it alphabetically.

Here, nothing is officially forgotten. Everything is recorded as PENDING RECOVERY because apparently, hope sounds better when printed in capital letters.

Marta, my supervisor, gave me my induction talk with the tone of a woman who had seen too many abandoned backpacks to believe in romance.

“Rule one”, she said.

“We catalogue objects, not emotions. The moment you start imagining stories, you’re done for.”

I nodded responsibly. I began imagining stories immediately.

By mid-morning I had processed:

• 12 umbrellas (all black, all convinced they were unique).

• A suitcase full of baby clothes and a single adult shoe.

• A violin case containing no violin, only guilt.

• 3 hats that had clearly given up on their owners.

And then came Box 47.

It sits at the top of the shelf — not for security reasons, but for emotional safety.

The contents description reads:

HUMAN HEART — PRESERVED

Location: wedding venue

Condition: still beating (surprisingly)

Claim status: pending retrieval

I stood there staring at it like it might introduce itself. Because, honestly, how do you misplace a heart and not immediately die? And yet here it was, between a picnic basket and a bag of novelty fridge magnets.

Marta saw my face.

“Don’t start”, she warned. “You’re already forming metaphors.”

I absolutely was.

I tried jotting down several explanations:

1. emotional burnout

2. symbolic gesture gone too far

3. a romantic breakup taken literally…

Or — my least favourite theory:

4. someone didn't make it

One afternoon the phone rang.

“Lost & Found, good afternoon”.

“ I believe you have a heart. Mine,” a man’s hoarse voice said nonchalantly.

I nearly saluted the shelf.

“Yes, Box 47”, I replied.

He chuckled. “Ah, still waiting then.”

We arranged collection for Tuesday.

I spent the next two days rehearsing possible heartfelt handover phrases such as: “Thank you for your patience” and “I hope you enjoyed the weeding, sweetheart.”

Tuesday came. He never did.

Box 47 returned to its shelf in a heartbeat.

Marta shrugged.

“It happens.”

And that was that.

Official status remained:

PENDING RECOVERY

A month later, we received another phone call. The same hoarse voice as before.

“Lost & Found, good morning.”

“Do you still happen to have my heart?”, he asked.

“Yes, Box 47”, I replied again.

We arranged collection for Friday.

This time he did show up, walking slowly, hands in his coat pockets, as if he had nowhere urgent to be.

He approached the counter.

“I’m here to collect my heart”, he said flatly.

“Here you are”, I said, aiming for composure.

Still in awe, I diligently placed the box on the counter and waited for him to add something else. He didn’t.

Finally, I couldn't help myself and said:

“I hope you don’t mind my asking, but… how did you forget a heart?”

He nodded thoughtfully.

“Yes, people tend to wonder.”

He paused, composing himself like a man about to reveal a profound truth.

“The truth is, I only used it when circumstances required it. Weddings, anniversaries, Valentine’s Day… the usual formalities.”

Silence.

He went on, unperturbed.

“Most of the time, it just complicates things. Makes decisions slower. Conversations longer. Sleep lighter”.

I glared. He went on.

“I found I function perfectly well without it. Feelings are overrated. Society gets very sentimental about them”.

He looked at me. I smiled.

He tucked the box under his arm as casually as if it contained a sandwich. He waved goodbye and turned around.

I made a note in the register.

Box 47 — COLLECTED

For a while I just sat there, feeling vaguely puzzled as I watched the man walk away.

Before stepping into the street, he absently picked a black umbrella from a pile labelled READY FOR A NEW LIFE. Outside, it had started to rain cats and dogs.

Only later, as I leaned back in my chair and happened to roll my eyes toward the wall, I noticed the calendar.

February 14

And suddenly I understood why the man had come for his heart that particular morning, and why he had sounded so unhurried, so mildly inconvenienced — as if picking up something he only needed for the day.

It occurred to me then that, like umbrellas, some people don’t lose their hearts at all. They simply choose not to carry them — except, perhaps, when the calendar insists, much like the weather.