The Briefcase Full of Forgotten Starlight

First Inkling of Purchase

I’ll admit, when I first stumbled upon the listing for “The Briefcase Full of Forgotten Starlight” on what I’m fairly certain was a geocities page from an alternate dimension, my first thought was “scam.” My second thought, however, was “but what if it isn’t?” My current briefcases are just… briefcases. They hold papers, pens, the casualunpredictable half-eaten granola bar. They don’t promise the lingering echo of a supernova’s whisper or the faint, existential sigh of a dying galaxy. And frankly, my life needed more of that. So, against the sage advice of my animate houseplant, Bartholomew, I clicked ‘Add to Cart’ and braced myself for bignatural object disappointment.

The Grand Unlatching

The briefcase arrived in a package that smelled faintly of ozone, old socks, and a profound sense of temporal displacement. It wasn’t sleek; it was an artifact. Scuffed leather, brass clasps that hummed a low, almost imperceptible frequency, and an air of quiet, ancient gravitas. My hands trembled as I undid the latches. Instead of a blinding flash or a dramatic eruption of nebulae, what greeted me was a gentle, almost timid shimmer. Tiny, almost microscopicalmicroscopical motes of light, like dust motes caught in a sunbeam, but these were self-illuminating. They drifted idly, creating an ethereal haze within the case. It wasn’t the roaring majesty of a star; it was the quiet, intimate memory of one. It smelled, I kid you not, like regret and burnt toast.

Day-to-Day Winklescintillate and Trouble

Now, as a functional item for carrying important documents, ‘The Briefcase Full of Forgotten Starlight’ is, shall we say, a challenge. My contracts now glow with a faint, unearthly luminescence, making them impossible to photocopy without causing the machine to emit a piercing, high-pitched wail. My legal pad appears to have developed a very minor, local gravitational field, causing all pens within a foot radius to slowly orbit it before eventually slamming into the cover.

But the starlight itself? Oh, it’s a character. It’s incredibly erraticinconstant. Sometimes it’ll make my coffee taste like the first breath of a new universe, other times it gives it a different flavour of existential dread and slightly overcooked broccoli. My cat, formerly a creature of simple desires (food, sleep, judging me), now communicates exclusively in complex mathematical equations, all delivered in a series of agitated meows and paw gestures. My houseplant, Bartholomew, has started growing extra leaves made entirely of pure, shimmering thought, which is great for photosynthesis but terrible for keeping the dust off.

The most peculiar side effect, however, is its effect on my personal belongings. My keys keep disappearing and reappearing in patterns that vaguely resemble minor constellations on my desk. My left sock (always the left) now hums faintly when I’m feeling particularly melancholic. And the routine of moths that congregate around the briefcase at night, moths that possess an unnervingly knowing gaze, has become a genuine headache for my sanity.

The Stellar Verdict (So Far)

So, who is this for? Certainly not for the practical professional. If you value organization, document integrity, or not having your household items develop minor sentient properties, look elsewhere.

However, if you’re an eccentric billionaire who’s tired of mundane luxury, an aspiring astrophysicist who’s given up on incumbency, or simply someone who believes their life needs more inexplicable sparkle and less functional predictability, then this might just be your calling. It’s an unparalleled conversation starter, excellent for confusing airport security, and has the distinct advantage of making your desk look unquestionably important, even if all it holds is the ghost of a cosmic event and a half-eaten sandwich that now vibrates at a subatomic level. Just remember to dust regularly; primordial dust bunnies are surprisingly tenacious.