2. The Music Box

[ After his appointment with Dr. Bennett, he leaves the Arcadia outpatient facility with a new prescription, the reusable Aldi bag with his packed lunch, and, if not a spring in his step, at least a cautious optimism. ]

[ Then he is walking through the tube station concourse, a maze of white tile and advertisements for streaming services he's never heard of and theatre productions outside of his budget. One of these has been defaced to read "DECREASE RENTS NOW", and on the wall next to it in marker pen: "A BETTER WORLD IS COMING". Lovely to hear, unknown vandal, but not the foremost of his concerns, as he's realized that he doesn't remember the walk here. He's lost track of time, in one way or another, and that's not so good, because now he's not sure if he was coming or going. He remembers having gone to the appointment, but that doesn't mean anything. ]

[ Muttering. ] Oh, bugger. [ He comes to an abrupt stop, against the flow of traffic and pulls out his pocket watch, trying to orientate himself. ]

[ Up on the escalator, a slender man in a surgical mask squeezes through the narrow gaps between the handrail and commuter elbows. In a white shirt and black trousers, he might as well be one of them—though he left his tie at Tottenham Court Road station, which has surely been trampled to death by now. ]

[ His reusable shopping bag nudges the legs of a disgruntled commuter, who makes some comment about having somewhere to be, he doesn't quite catch it. Yes, actually, he has somewhere much more important to be than the average office drone, now that the fellow mentions it. He turns his head round to snipe back. ]

[ Instead, he barrels directly into an obstacle in the form of a sturdily-built loiterer. He crashes unceremoniously to the tiles. ]

Huht— [ No sooner has he orientated himself (Evening, and therefore northbound! Hurrah!) than someone crashes right into him. He stumbles, holding fast to the watch but dropping his lunch bag, and feels the poor ballistic commuter's belongings sail straight past his shoulder. ]

Oh, my God! [ He turns to help the fallen stranger up. The other passengers don't stop, just part like the Red Sea around them. It's kind of impressive, really. ] I'm so sorry—are, are you okay?

[ Through gritted teeth: ] Just—fine. [ He snatches his shopping bag before it can fall prey to the merciless stampede of polished shoes. ]

[ With a withering look for the stranger's hand, he lurches to his feet and spins on his heel, marching for the southbound trains at a breakneck pace. ] Watch where you stand and gawk, man! [ He adjusts the Aldi bag on his shoulder and disappears around the corner. ]

[ He watches the man stride off, gawking at the audacity. ]

[ Under his breath, when the blond is well out of earshot: ] Or w...atch where you're going.

[ Never mind. He was probably just having a bad day (makes two of them). He hunts about for his own bag, which has managed to slide several feet away. He retrieves it, dusting it off. With that, he marches away to the other line—northbound—thinking only about whether there's any shopping to be done before he gets home. ]

[ He doesn't think about that chance encounter again until later that evening, in the kitchen of his flat. An uncharacteristic impulse of chore immediacy has him decide to do the washing-up. Except when he dumps out the contents of his lunch bag, what lands in his hand is not the tupperware container he packed earlier that day, but a small wooden box. ]

What on earth...?

[ He looks back at the shopping bag, checking underneath it, as if, since he last looked, his tupperware might have been secreted there by rogue cobbler elves. Only then does he remember the impolite blond man shouldering a reusable shopping bag, patterned in blue and white. How extraordinarily inconvenient that they should have the same habit. ]

[ He turns the thing over in his hands. A jewellery box of burnished wood which fits neatly in his palm. Light catches a subtle floral pattern engraved around the sides, glints off a key which protrudes enticingly from the back... not just a jewellery box, a music box. The furrow in his brow deepens. ]

[ If this were merely a different container of carrot batons, he wouldn't bother, but a well-loved old antique? Clearly, this is a matter that requires some attention. He takes the box into the sitting room, where he can consider it over a glass of brandy. The mess on his coffee table, along with the sticky notes reminding him to clean it, are moved to the floor with his pile of books, and replaced by the music box, which he settles in to inspect, fingers clasped around his tumbler. ]

In all that hurry, let's hope you remembered to write your name inside. [ He unlatches the lid to have a look. ]

[ The interior of the box is simple. The lid is lined with a mirror, the edges cushioned with velvet. The shallow basin in the bottom suggests an alcove to store jewelry; a packet of sunflower seeds has been left inside. Rising from the centre is a thin metal pedestal with a delicate figure affixed to it. ]

[ She is a small porcelain dancer en pointe. Her tiny arms are held in an elegant fifth over her head. Her minute features are finely painted—round black dots for eyes, bronze cheeks made rosy, brown halo of milkmaid braids. Her tutu stands apart, a romantic thing of fluffy white tulle. ]

[ The ballerina is as tall as a thumb, and dwarfs the limited space of the music box, but she is small enough that her meticulous proportions scan as unusually accurate. If one peers close enough at her diminutive form, one might see a very faint glow from her chest, a sliver of rainbow light where a person's heart might lie. ]

[ Any contents or labels in the box are forgotten in favour of the intricate dancer. He pushes his glasses up his nose for a better look. Extraordinary! He had no idea you could paint such fine detail work on porcelain at two inches tall. Her eyes have delicate lashes. There are stray hairs at the nape of her neck, wisps poking out of her ribbons. The tutu is real (he supposes the mesh lines were too much trouble) but the bodice has been sculpted and painted as if it's sequined. No glitter here, just paint and texture. She—it, rather—looks on the verge of taking a breath. ]

Incredible. [ Thoughtfully. ] He's missing you, I'll bet.

[ Is it a trick of the light, or is the dancer's chest glowing, ever so faintly? A strange sensation prickles the back of his skull... ]

[ He leans away and sneezes into his sleeve. ]

[ No sign of a name, though. There is what he initially thinks is the man’s stash, but turns out to be a packet of sunflower seeds, which he removes with confusion. So it was a lunch box after all, then? Yuck. ]

[ There's nothing else in the box: no phone numbers, no jewellery, no secret compartments. ]

Quite the dilemma we're in. [ Conversational aside to the ballerina. ] Shame he hasn't written his name on it... What are you, then? F-family heirloom? Memento of a lost love?

[ The ballerina does not respond. ]

[ Well, yes. It's not as if a music box doll can speak. Obviously. ]

[ Although, that does give him an idea. An unlikely source of clues, maybe, but there is one thing he hasn't examined. And he was curious about the tune, anyway. ]

[ He closes the lid, gives the key a few good winds, and opens the box once more. ]

[ The ballerina rotates in place to a short, simple tune in a major key. The wistful melody, supplemented by gentle harmonies, is better suited for a lullaby than the barre. ]

[ He watches the dancer turn, spellbound. It's a pretty song... and more than that. Familiar. The movement spins round and round as he tries to place it. Not a piece he can name, or one he's played... so where has he heard it before—? ]

[ —He jerks back, drops of brandy spattering the table. ]

[ Cursing, he mops it up with his handkerchief, then downs the rest of the glass. Takes a shuddering breath, resting his forehead against the rim. ]

[ What are the chances? A random office worker's music box happens to play that exact tune—his song. The logical answer is that it's from a film, or a video game, some piece of media that is a cultural touchstone for everyone except noted fuddy-duddy Mattias Moran. (His hand drifts towards his pocket.) It's a coincidence. (An old friend of his used to claim there was no such thing.) ]

Either way. [ Sighing as the movement winds down. ] It's not as if there's anything I can do about it.

[ He slaps his cheek a few times to rouse himself. No, really, seriously, that's more than enough for one day. Have a normal supper, go to bed, and for the love of God, stop ruminating. ]

[ That night, he leaves the music box on his bedside table, in the hopes of it catching his attention before he goes to work. Coincidence or otherwise, magical or otherwise, it's none of his business. He'll bring it to the lost and found, and then it will be out of his hands. ]

[ The lights are off, the resident is asleep. Silence reigns in the flat. ]

[ When there are no more noises from the world outside the box, the lid wobbles, and opens a hair. A tiny pair of black eyes peer into the darkness. ]