The box sat slumped against the curb, its corners softened by rain and time. Once it had been sturdy—the kind that promised safe delivery, stamped with handling instructions and fragile warnings that someone, somewhere, had bothered to print. Now the cardboard sagged inward, its sides bruised with water stains and splits that had healed crooked, if they'd healed at all.

Inside, broken glass caught the afternoon light in jagged prisms. Shards of what might have been bottles, picture frames, or windows—it was impossible to say anymore. They'd been broken so many times that their original shapes had become irrelevant. Some pieces were large enough to show their history in curved edges or embossed patterns. Others had been reduced to glittering fragments, crushed so fine they resembled sand more than glass.

The box never asked to be approached. It made no sound, sent no signal. Yet people passing by would sometimes pause, curious or concerned, drawn by the sparkle of something that looked almost beautiful from a distance. They'd crouch down, reach out a careless hand—and the cardboard would shift, settling deeper into itself, causing the contents to slide and resettle. That's when the glass did what glass does.

It wasn't malicious. The shards didn't mean to cut the fingers that tried to right the box, to carry it somewhere better, to sort through and see what might be saved. But intent doesn't matter much when skin meets edge. Blood comes anyway, bright and immediate, and the helpful hands pull back with a gasp.

The box remained. Weathered. Heavy with its glittering burden. Still carrying the fractures of everything it had once held whole.