The low metal table at the edge of the baggage claim was chipped along its right corner, bearing faint residue smudges from countless oily fingerprints. A neat stack of nylon luggage tags sat waiting—dozens of them, all unsorted and awaiting transfer to their proper owners. They were mostly faded blue or dull black, secured by thin strips of discolored webbing that had frayed slightly at the edges. The surface itself was cool under the late afternoon air, reflecting the scuffed linoleum floor in a greasy sheen. A slow, irregular clatter sounded as the massive carousel shifted beneath them, causing the stack to settle with a dry, papery whisper. It was an ordinary sound of routine friction, marking time in increments that felt too steady for this transitional space. The air held the faint, metallic scent of dust and industrial cleaning solution, masking nothing important. The tags were stacked by sheer volume, counting arrivals and departures, handling and returns. Yet, one tag sat slightly askew on top, disrupting the otherwise perfect geometry of the stack. Its webbing was a deep burgundy, unlike the others, and its printed barcode held an impossible date: 10/31/2045. The ink looked fresh, almost wet against the dull backdrop of the other tags. A passing attendant paused near the table, bending slightly to straighten the pile, their fingers brushing lightly across the corner where the chipped metal met the floor. They did not look at the date; they only adjusted the stack's weight and balance. The movement was quick, efficient—a small repair in progress that failed to erase the impossible fact of the tag’s printed future.
warning · uneasy