“I lost something.”
The receptionist does not look up from the registry.
“When?”
“Thirty years ago.”
Her finger stops once, then moves again.
“What kind of item?”
“Weight.”
The man remains still, one hand inside his right pocket.
“When I woke up this morning, I was lighter.
Every time I walk, my body falls slightly behind.”
“I don’t know what I lost.”
The woman looks only at the notebook.
A page is turned.
No sound.
“We have it.”
That is all she says.
Her eyes do not rise.
“In the back.”
In the corner of the room, at a distance where it can already be seen, something gray rests there.
Something like a stone.
The man approaches.
The distance closes a moment too late.
He reaches out.
Touches it. Cold.
Pushes. It does not move.
Pulls away.
Only his fingertips return a fraction later.
The man sits down where he is.
No sound.
His right shoulder lowers slightly.
The receptionist calls the next person.
“Next.”
Someone passes beside him.
Only footsteps remain.
Only the fact of having passed remains.
The man stays there.
It is unclear whether he is touching it or not.
The gray object appears to be the same as before.
It also appears not to be.
Outside the window, a bird cries.
The sound enters the room once, then leaves.
After a while, the man puts his right hand into his pocket.
There is nothing inside.
Only the sensation of putting it there remains.
The receptionist turns another page of the registry.
“Next.”
Only the voice continues.