A chance encounter with a forgotten suitcase in the rain sparks an unsettling journey into the past.
Inspired by the word prompt of “luggage.” I wanted to explore the idea of a forgotten, abandoned suitcase as a symbol of something much deeper—perhaps a lost opportunity, a dream that never materialized, or even a haunting reminder of what could have been.
The writing style draws on a noir atmosphere, weaving together melancholy and introspection, with a touch of dark humor and suspense.
The Unclaimed
The rain was falling in sheets, turning the train platform into a shimmering, half-lit hallucination. Water pooled in the cracks between the tiles, reflecting neon signs from the street beyond, warping their glow into something unsteady, feverish. The clock overhead flickered between 2:13 and 2:14 AM like it couldn’t make up its mind, its mechanical hum barely audible over the downpour.
And then there was the suitcase.
Black leather, worn at the edges, beaded with rain, sitting dead center beneath the dim glow of the departure board. No one near it, no claim to its existence. Just waiting. Watching. Daring someone to take notice. The scent of damp wool and stale cigarette smoke clung to the air around it, like ghosts of travelers long gone.
I told myself to keep walking. The last thing I needed was to get tangled in some lost luggage situation. But something in my gut twisted the way it does when you realize you’ve forgotten something important—like your keys, or your name, or the exact moment your life went off the rails.
So I stopped.
The rain drummed against my shoulders. My jacket grew heavier with every second. I edged forward, hands in my pockets like I could pretend I wasn’t interested. The tag was curled at the edges, ink smudged from years of handling, but the initials were unmistakable.
Mine.
A slow exhale ghosted past my lips, visible in the cold night air. My brain kicked against itself, searching for the logical answer. Maybe someone had the same initials. Maybe it was a coincidence. I knelt, fingers numb, and popped the latches. The universe let out a long, slow laugh at my expense.
Inside, neatly folded, was a life I never lived.
A ticket to New Orleans, dated three years ago. A battered copy of a book I once promised myself I’d read on a long train ride, its pages still crisp, untouched. The scent of old paper and leather curled up from its spine. A letter I had written a hundred times in my head but never dared put to paper, the ink slightly blurred, as if my hesitation had seeped into it. A coat I once imagined throwing over my shoulders as I walked away from everything, but had never actually owned. It smelled faintly of cedar and something else—something like memory.
The rain pounded harder, pressing in like the night itself. My breath thinned. The platform stretched, warped—a tunnel I’d been lost in for too long. The sodium lights above buzzed, flickering, their glow stuttering like a dying heartbeat.
This wasn’t a forgotten suitcase. It was an accusation.
A reminder of an escape that never happened.
I stood there as the past bled out of an old leather case, dripping into the cracks between the tiles. The distant wail of a train whistle cut through the night, low and mournful, carrying a promise—or a warning. The train to nowhere roared in the distance, headlights cutting through the mist. The kind of train you either board without hesitation—or spend the rest of your life wondering if you should have.
The suitcase lingered, waiting. As if it knew something I didn’t.
I closed the latches. The metal clicked, final, like a door shutting on something I’d never quite outrun.
And I walked away.
(c) Eric Montgomery
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