The courier found the box on a rain-slick stoop behind a shuttered café, wedged between a dented bicycle rack and a stack of returned crates. It was plain cardboard, unmarked except for a single stamped line: CZECHMASSAGE 80 — REPACK. No return address. No customs label. Just that neat, bureaucratic lettering, as if it belonged in some long-forgotten inventory.
He never plugged it in again. The next morning, he returned it to Marek without a word. But late at night, sometimes, when the city hummed with tram wires and distant bass, Jiří would catch himself reciting old shipping routes in perfect English—a language he’d barely passed in high school.
Thank you for understanding.
