[Intro – low, close] Night shift. If you lost something important, you’ll come in quiet. [Verse 1] We don’t get wallets. We get hours. A Tuesday someone meant to call their father and didn’t, still warm like a battery that died mid-sentence. We get “almost.” A ring box that lived in a drawer for two years, opened a hundred times, never once at the right moment. We get attention in small plastic bags. “Found between doomscroll and sleep.” We tag it, log it, shelve it, like you can return focus the way you return a borrowed book. Someone drops off their laugh. Says it used to show up for no reason. Now it needs permission. I nod like this is normal because if I look surprised, they’ll remember what they’ve done to themselves and start crying in my aisle. [Pre-Chorus] Most people don’t lose things. They trade them. They just hate the receipt. [Chorus] This is the Lost & Found for unlived things. Sign here. Tell me what it was worth. I’ll stamp it “retrievable” like the system believes in mercy. But you can’t return a life the way you return a shirt. [Verse 2] A woman brings in a small jar labeled “soft.” Says it belonged to her voice before every meeting trained it into a knife. A guy hands me his best apology. Still sealed. He kept it “for later” until later grew teeth. A kid leaves a whole childhood on the counter in the form of a tiny keychain toy. Says, “It doesn’t fit in my pocket anymore.” Then smiles like he’s proud. That part hits harder than it should. I file “courage” under MISC. Not because it’s rare— because nobody knows what to call it until it’s already gone. And when the building goes quiet, I hear my own shelves rattle in the back of my head. [Pre-Chorus] I’ve been running this place like a professional. Meaning: I’ve gotten good at not looking at my own name. [Chorus] This is the Lost & Found for unlived things. Sign here. Tell me what it was worth. I’ll stamp it “retrievable” like the system believes in mercy. But you can’t return a life the way you return a shirt. [Bridge – stripped / nearly spoken] There’s a drawer I don’t open. It’s labeled with my handwriting. Inside: conversations I postponed into silence, love I diluted into “maybe,” time I called “later” until later became a habit. I tell myself I’m just the clerk. Just the guy behind the counter. Then I hear the elevator ding and realize I’ve been waiting for a floor that never comes. [Final Chorus – wider, heavier] This is the Lost & Found for unlived things. No refund. No exchange. Only the moment you stop bargaining and walk out with your own name again. Because you can’t return a life the way you return a shirt. [Outro – close] We’re open. Always. That’s the problem.
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