A Casket

It is a box covered in pale golden brocade. The cover is topped with a cream curlicue knot, which holds its folded upper corners in place. It adorns a tab which, when pulled upwards, reveals the box of white Japanese pine beneath. The wood exudes a special scent, like incense. The box is not the treasure, however, for when its lid is removed there is an urn of polished black granite nestled inside, smoothly shaped with rounded edges and carved with kanji characters: a name, a date. Its weight, for something so small, lends it gravity. But the urn is not the treasure either, for the treasure lies within. The urn’s lid is held closed, simply, with sticky tape.

Erika

The escalator deposits Erika in the arrivals hall of Heathrow’s Terminal Two. She frowns at the board, checking to see if the flight from Tokyo has landed. Being late to greet Kei is not an option. It hasn’t landed yet, thank god. Erika left home early but there’ve been delays; at Earl’s Court the Piccadilly line platform was crammed with people. Earlier that morning someone had thrown themselves under a train. She blocked her mind from going where it usually tried to go whenever she heard the person-under-a-train announcement, and bought a magazine from the kiosk to distract herself for the rest of the journey to Heathrow.

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