The Case Behind the Counter

A Rattle in the Blue Case

1At Central Station, I followed Aunt Marisol through a stream of rolling suitcases. Somewhere between the ticket machines and the clock, I had lost the blue case holding my grandfather's harmonica. He had trusted me to bring it to his new apartment. Now every suitcase wheel seemed to repeat the same accusation: careless, careless. We had twenty minutes before our train.

2At lost-and-found, a clerk named Devika pointed to a blue case behind the counter. Its handle had the same silver tape as mine. I reached across, then stopped. A tiny rattle came from inside when she lifted it. My grandfather kept his harmonica wrapped in a thick cloth. “Could you describe something inside?” Devika asked. Behind us, a departure announcement dissolved into a burst of static.

3“A harmonica,” I said. “And a yellow cloth.” A boy beside the counter shook his head. “Mine has little metal pieces. For a model airplane.” He held up a claim slip, creased into quarters. “I left it near the ticket machines.” That was where I had stopped, too. Aunt Marisol checked the clock but said nothing. Devika set the case between us without opening it.

4The boy's fingers hovered above the silver tape. Mine stayed on the counter. Under the handle, a corner of a white sticker lifted away from the case. I leaned closer. Two faded letters showed through a smear: his initials, not mine. “Go ahead,” I told him. The latches clicked. Inside lay a neat row of metal rods. My shoulders sank, although I tried to smile.

5“Wait,” Devika said. She checked a shelf below the counter and brought up another blue case. A yellow thread poked from its seam. This time, I described the dent in the harmonica before she opened it. Outside the office, the crowd carried us toward our platform. I slipped the case into my backpack and fastened both buckles. When the wheels around me rattled, I heard wheels.