The knock was late enough that I assumed it was an accident—someone else’s door, someone else’s problem. I opened it anyway. On the porch sat a navy-blue matte box, placed carefully at the center of the welcome mat. I brought it inside because leaving it there felt impolite.
The lid opened easily, held shut by a magnet. The smell reached me first—thick and damp, like heat trapped in fabric. I didn’t look right away, standing longer than I needed for a reasonable explanation. There wasn’t one.
The heart sat on my kitchen table while I slept. I told myself I’d deal with it in the morning. But the smell didn’t stay. It slipped underneath my bedroom door, crept under the sheets, and insisted. By dawn, it had settled into the apartment like humidity.
At first, I blamed the trash. Old berries forgetting they were supposed to be sweet. I took the bag from the bin and paused, thinking about the way they used to rinse containers before throwing them away, how they said smells lingered if you didn’t, so I rinsed the sink.
By 5:30, I gave up, slipped on a jacket, wrapped a scarf over my nose, and rushed to the city bridge—a place where people took photos: white dresses, rented gowns, careful smiles. I didn’t stop long. I dropped the box from the highest point and watched it disappear, swallowed by the dark water. I felt ridiculously relieved.
When I woke later that afternoon, the apartment smelled worse. The box sat on the kitchen table, damp along its edges, the cardboard softened. The smell had changed–sharper now, like pennies warmed in a pocket. It clung to my hands, lodged itself beneath my nails. Scrubbing did nothing; the scent haunted the house.
I went straight to the yard, dug a hole near the rose bush, shoved the box in, and packed the dirt back hard, as if the firmness might convince it to stay. My knees ached when I stood, waiting.
The heart returned again, closer this time. Not on the table, but beside the mug I always left out. The smell had softened, grown familiar. It lingered in the kitchen, the living room, even in my coat sleeves. I opened windows, lit candles, scrubbed every surface, but it clung, persistent.
It changed how I moved through the house. The couch reminded me of winter evenings, how they’d drape a blanket over my legs without asking. The spice rack looked disordered; I fixed it like they would. I caught myself rinsing containers before I threw them away.
The box stayed. I stopped trying to move it. I didn’t open it again, but I didn’t hide it either. The smell soaked into everything, into me. It no longer felt invasive. Slowly, I realized this—this stubborn, invading smell, this absurd, disgusting thing—was mine. The things I’d abandoned, the memories I’d packed away, the quiet traces of someone I had loved—it had all returned in this navy box.