City of Others
Three flash-fictions,
More than 90% contents was created by AI [prompt]
1. The Ministry of Lost Things
On the third sublevel of City Hall, where ventilation schematics have long since been swallowed by time, there is an office no one ever asks about.
The Ministry of Lost Things.
It appears on no building plan, yet boxes are constantly being delivered there.
Inside: socks, buttons, names of dead cats, lost dreams, forgotten keys to apartments that no longer exist.
The Minister is a pale man in a dark suit, with a face that seems slightly unfinished — as if the sculptor gave up halfway through.
He never lifts his eyes. He only whispers:
— What have you lost?
The clients vary. Some are looking for umbrellas. Some — for childhood.
One man returned for three years in a row, looking for his lost sense of humor, but each time he received only a receipt… and the faint sound of laughter behind the wall.
— We don’t return things, — they told him.
— We only register the absence.
One day, a child came in. He held a handful of air.
— This was my imaginary friend, — he said. — He disappeared when I grew up.
The Minister looked up from his papers.
For the first time ever.
— You don’t understand, — he said. — You disappeared.
And he just stayed… waiting.
2. The Letter That Never Arrived
Every morning, Edith came to the post office looking for a letter. Since 1957.
She would arrive precisely at 9:03, in a gray coat with a pearl button, walk up to the window, and say the same phrase:
— “Perhaps today.”
Young clerks came and went, aged, retired.
Only Danny — now gray and hunched — remembered that once, in 1957, she really did receive a letter.
She opened it, read it… and froze.
The next day, she came again.
— “Perhaps today,” she said, as if nothing had happened. And she kept coming.
No one knew who the letter had been from.
No one knew what it said.
And she never told.
On her table at home stood a crystal vase. Inside — carefully folded, yellowed with time — was the envelope. Opened. Empty.
3. Dream Registration
A new department opened in the city. Not for complaints, not for taxes. For the registration of dreams.
— Not a storyline, but the right to one, — explained the clerk.
— So that no one later appears in your dreams without permission.
The first to come was a man who, every night, dreamt of the same woman. He didn’t know who she was, but every time he woke up in tears.
— I want to keep her for myself.
— Describe her.
He described her eyes, her voice, the moment of farewell. Without a word, the clerk handed him a form: “Dream No. 14382. Registered. Claims denied.”
Then came a woman who hadn’t dreamt anything in a long time. She demanded compensation.
— For the void.
— That’s not for us. That goes to the neighboring department.
In the corner sat a boy, drawing something on his palm.
— And what are you waiting for?
He didn’t look up.
— I was born in a dream. No one registered me.
By evening, a man in a suit arrived. There was a stamp on his forehead.
— I am a foreign dream. Someone invented me and then forgot about me. I want to be free.
The clerk sighed.
— That’s against the rules. If you become real — who will be held accountable?
— And what if no one answers? — asked the man.
Then the lights in the room went out, and no one ever woke up again.