Unknown

I found it in the drawer

where I keep takeout menus and batteries that don't work,

where things live when there's nowhere else for them to go.

The letters are worn almost smooth.

A name, maybe. Initials. A number.

It doesn't matter—I can't read it.

The stamping is so faint it might be nothing,

might be random marks the chain made

just by existing for however long.

I've been carrying it in my pocket for three days.

Not because I know who it belongs to.

Because I don't know.

It's become a problem to solve,

which is easier than it being

just something that arrived here by accident,

just something someone left behind

and never came looking for.

I take it out sometimes and hold it up to the light,

like the sun might reveal what decades couldn't.

Nothing appears.

The chain is rusty at the clasp.

The metal is warm from my pocket.

Whoever wore this

isn't coming back for it.

I know that.

But I keep it anyway,

like keeping it means someone is still looking,

like the carrying itself is a kind of memorial,

like the problem of the unknown name

is better than the answer.