You are walking home. Someone bumps into you. That's normal, this is a busy city. They apologize.

“I'm sorry! Gotta watch where I’m going”

“That's fine.” You respond.

They hand you a box.

“Here, take this. I don't need it, and I should really do something to make up for bumping into you.”

Before you can try to give it back they've gone into the crowd of people. You're confused but curious as to what's in the box, but you want to get home to open it. You continue on your way home, only a few more blocks. You bump into someone.

He doesn't give you a chance to apologize, and rips the box out of your hands.

“Hey!” You exclaim.

He runs.
You chase.
You run down an alleyway.
A thought occurs. Why are you chasing this stranger for a random box of which the contents are unknown?
Oh well, you've run this far, might as well keep going.
You bump into someone. He is the same person who took the box.

“Hey, give me that box back!” You tell him.

“Why do you need the box? I saw that person give it to you. You don't even know what's in it, so why do you want it so bad? Are you crazy or something? Chasing me down an alleyway for a box you don't even know the contents of? Jesus, you are crazy. Ju-”

“Hey, shut up! I just-that box is mine!” You interrupt.

“Why would you take it? You don't even know what's in it! You're probably the crazy one.” You continue, questioning yourself again, but unwilling to leave the box with the stranger.
“Lets just…open the box, then whoever wants what's in the box more can have it, okay?” You try to make a deal with him, knowing he isn't going to give the box over willingly.

The stranger nods reluctantly, and opens the box.

A teapot, a necklace, and a folded piece of paper.

“What’s the paper say?” you ask.

The stranger unfolds it and reads it outloud.

“Christina ‘Licorice’ McKechnie, singer and songwriter in The incredible string band. What's that?” He asks, as if you would know.

“Maybe it's the owner of the box? Sounds like they’re in a band. I mean, that's obvious, it literally says she's the songwriter and singer.” You reply.

The stranger shrugs.

“I mean, it could just be a random artist that the owner liked.” He suggests.
“Yeah.”
“....”
“Well is something in the teapot?” You ask.
“Why would something be in the teapot?” He responds.
“I don’t know, this whole day has been weird as hell, so is there something in the teapot or not?”
“Christ, you don’t need to raise your voice, I get it. I’ll look in the teapot, jeez.”
“Thank you”
“No problem dude”
“Don’t call me dude.”

He doesn't respond, just stares into the teapot.

“Well? What's in the teapot?” You ask the stranger.
He glances at you with a grim look on his face.
“....Pictures. And ashes.” He says.
“Ashes? Like human ashes? Or ashes from a fire or something?” You ask.
“I would guess they’re….human. The pictures are…they-...I don’t think they’re fake is all im going to say.” The stranger sounds scared.

“Let me see.”

You look at the photos. They are all black and white, a little dusty from the ashes. In all of them except one, a woman, face a little long, in a dress that looks like it's a hippie person's clothing. Beautiful all and all. But she’s in different stages of decomposition. The first is of her alive in what looks to be the passenger seat in a car, smiling and staring at the camera. The next one looks like she's recently died, blood still looking fresh, but in the trunk of a car. The third, dried blood. Same position. The fourth looks like the body has been punched repeatedly or hit with something, but now on a concrete floor.

“Blunt force” You think. Stupid true crime documentaries giving you fancy language for what fucked up people do to others.

The fifth is of a freshly dug grave.

“Why a teapot for god's sake?” You say. What else can you say? Note how fucked up that is? The stranger knows that. Of course they do.

“Why would you ask that of all things?” He asks you.

“What else should I say? How fucked up that is? You know that, I know that, so quit looking at me like I don’t give a fuck!” You snap.

“Jeus! Dude! you gotta calm the fuck down!” He snaps back at you.

You are silent for a moment.

“That necklace must have belonged to her. It's really nice. And don’t call me dude” You say.

“Yeah. We should probably go to the police or some shit though.” He responds.

You are both silent for a minute or two, then you start walking out of the alleyway, the stranger following with the box.

“So…what's your name?” you ask.
“Sam. yours?”
“####”
“Nice. Do you know where the police station is?”
“No. Do you?”
“Nope”
“Great”
“Yup”

You walk with a stranger named Sam who is holding a box that was given to you by another stranger who seemed kind but is now terrifying, trying to find a police station and now you think about what would have happened if you stayed home or stayed late at work. Or if you opened the box at home. Or if Sam had also stayed home.Or just didn’t steal from people. Or if someone else was given the box. You hate the box. You wish you were never given the box so you could live your life in bliss.

Sam is asking someone where a police station could be. The box is closed again. You want to look at the pictures again. You don't ask because that would be inconsiderate to the woman who was killed and Sam. You're sure Sam would hate to see them again. You would too, but you still want to see them. What is wrong with you?

Sam is tugging your arm, leading you towards a police station. You go in it. Sam presents the box to an officer. His eyes widen and you see fear and disgust in them. He calls over another officer, whispers to them and then leads you and Sam to a room. You sit next to Sam and stare at the table, thinking about what the hell is going on today. Sam looks at you, seemingly concerned. Why is he concerned? He’s a literal thief. He should go fuck himself. Wait, you said that outloud. Fuck.

“Dude, are you good?” he asks.

You think for a moment. You don't really need to think though.

“No. What about you?” you say.

“I feel shitty. In my mind I mean. I’m not sick sick. I think. I mean, I could be. Who knows. You could be sick. We all could be sick. Whoever did that to the woman was sick in the mind. They should be locked up in jail forever. All the time. Never ever be let out.” Sam rambles.

“Yeah. Like that Ted Bundy guy. Locked up forever.” You respond.

A police officer walks in. She's a different person. You haven't seen her before. She asks what happened. She lets you know this has happened to three other people, and every box had a different missing person's name in it, along with a teapot, pictures documenting the deaths, and a personal item. They don’t know if the ashes are actually human ashes.

They let you go home. Sam goes home. You are alone in your bathroom. You don't think you can live with this on your mind anymore. You cry. You live, but not the same. Not ever.