For years, Ivan worked the night shift at the central train station. He thought nothing could surprise him anymore. Forgotten umbrellas, lost toys, wallets left on benches — he had seen it all.
But that evening, something felt different.
Near platform 7 stood a suitcase. Old, worn, the handle taped over. For three hours, passengers came and went, but no one approached it.
Ivan called out:
“Whose bag is this?”
Silence.
He radioed his supervisor. “We’ve got unclaimed luggage.”
“Follow protocol,” the voice replied.
Ivan bent down, carefully touching the case. It was heavier than it looked. And… warm? His stomach tightened.
“Probably food,” he muttered, though his hands trembled.
He unlatched the case. It creaked open.
Inside was not food. Not clothes. Not money.
A child’s toy sat on top — a teddy bear. Its fur was burned, one button eye missing. And beneath it…
Ivan’s heart stopped.
Dozens of passports, stacked neatly. All with different names, different faces. Yet every single one had the same date of birth.
The radio crackled. “Report, Ivan, what’s inside?”
But Ivan couldn’t speak. His eyes were locked on the last passport in the pile.
It bore his own name. His own photograph.
And the date of issue was tomorrow.
