Narrative: Unclaimed Inventory

The storage facility had one unit we couldn't rent. Not because anything was wrong with it. The computer simply refused to acknowledge it existed. I could stand directly in front of the shutter, read the number painted above it, then search that number at reception... Nothing. So eventually we used it for things people abandoned. An old suitcase went in first. Then a desk fan. Three boxes of children's books. A floor lamp with no shade. Ordinary junk. A month later, I opened the unit and found everything arranged in rows. Not stacked. Displayed. There were also things I had never put there. A single white glove. A calculator without buttons. A wooden comb much too wide for a human head. And a small brass object with a handle on each end. I couldn't tell what it was for. I picked up the brass thing. Both handles turned toward my hands. Not moved... turned. Like they'd been waiting to face the correct direction. I put it down. The calculator made a clicking sound behind me. Its blank surface had changed. There weren't numbers on it. There were words. LIFT. TURN. INSERT. REMOVE. I didn't touch it. The next object was already moving. The comb dragged itself several centimeters across the shelf. Stopped. Moved again. Always toward me. I backed away. The desk fan rotated without electricity until it pointed directly at the brass object. The children's books began opening. One after another. Every book stopped on a different page. Every illustration showed someone... using something. Not these objects. Things shaped almost like them. Tools designed for tasks I couldn't understand. Then the white glove lifted one finger. And pointed behind me. There was another shelf. It hadn't been there before. Hundreds of objects. Carefully separated. Some looked unfinished. Some looked worn from years of use. Others had surfaces polished smooth exactly where hands would hold them. But none of them made sense. A handle attached to nothing. A ceramic piece shaped to fit against a face, but not any part of mine. A bundle of metal rods that bent away whenever I reached toward them. Then I noticed the labels. Every shelf had one. KITCHEN. HYGIENE. RECREATION. CHILDREN. MEDICAL. I understood the categories. That was the problem. Because whatever used these things had apparently needed kitchens. It cleaned itself. It played. It raised young. It got injured. And somebody... had organized what it left behind. I walked toward the shutter. Something clicked behind me. Then another. Then hundreds. Not random anymore. Every object in the unit was adjusting itself. Handles rotated. Hinges opened. Pieces unfolded. All of them preparing for use. The white glove pointed toward the lowest shelf. There was one empty space. A label had been fixed underneath it. I crouched to read it. FACILITY STAFF. Everything has a place here. Everything eventually finds its shelf. I stood up. The shutter behind me began lowering. I reached underneath it... and stopped. Outside the unit, the storage building looked wrong. Not changed. Incomplete. Like I'd spent my entire life looking at something before it had been properly assembled. The shutter continued downward. From somewhere among the shelves... something picked up the brass object. Both handles turned. This time... toward whoever was holding it.