The flimsy, gloomy suitcase sat in the entryway.
Not belonging. An imposter.
It didn’t fit in with the others.
At first, no one payed attention,
then they did.
My mom was the first to notice.

“Who’s suitcase is this?”
Her words were refreshing after the long car ride from London to TOWN NAME as
they rolled over the livingroom of the English cottage.

No one said a thing-
not my grandparents taking inventory of the kitchen’s food,
not my dad mapping out our route across the English countryside at the kitchen table,
not my brother upstairs unpacking.

My parents opened the suitcase’s front pocket and pulled out a greasy, beat up wallet and a passport.
It was a man’s suitcase and wallet,
but it wasn’t our suitcase.
We shared confused, shocked glances.

Who’s was this?
What happened to them?
How had it gotten into our rental car?

We headed to the nearby police station, my dad, my mom and I.
As I examined the suitcase,
I noticed the front pocket zipper was broken
and the canvas covering was falling apart. 
What had this suitcase been through?

We handed the mysterious luggage to the coppers.
The coppers emailed us a week later, telling us they had found the ominous man’s family in Australia.
We never found out what was in that suitcase,
or how it came into our possession.