The Glove Remembers.

I don’t own a kitchen table. But the glove was on it anyway. Single leather glove. Right hand. Black. Warm as a pulse. And it was pointing at my bedroom door. My sister Zara had been dead for three months. Buried. Autopsied. Case closed. She did not mail packages. I didn’t scream. I should have. Instead I checked the locks. Front door: deadbolt on. Windows: sealed. No signs of break-in. No courier slip. No return address. Just the glove, sitting on a table I’d never seen before, in the middle of my one-bedroom apartment in Wuse. The AC was at 18°C. The glove should’ve been cold. It wasn’t. It was body-warm. Like she’d just taken it off. “Zara?” I said to my empty apartment. My voice cracked on the second syllable. The glove twitched. One finger. Index. Curling inward. _Come here._ That’s when I called Detective Hayes. He’d been the lead on Zara’s case. He’d been the one who told me “suicide” while handing me a ziplock of her effects. No glove in that bag. I’d remember. He picked up on the third ring. “Amara? It’s 2AM.” “I got her glove,” I said. “It’s warm.” Silence. Then: “Amara, your sister’s case is closed. You need sleep.” “It moved.” “Grief does strange things to the brain. Come in tomorrow and—” I hung up. Because the glove was moving again. Dragging itself across the wood. One inch. Two. The table didn’t exist ten minutes ago. Now it was _here_, and the glove was leaving a wet mark behind it. Not water. Condensation. Like breath on glass. The table was sweating. The glove stopped at the edge. Index finger pointing straight at my bedroom. At my fiancé, Tunde, asleep inside. Tunde, who swore he barely knew Zara. Tunde, who was out of town the night she died. Tunde, whose jacket was hanging on my bedroom door. The glove’s finger curled down. Pointing at the pocket. I didn’t breathe as I crossed the room. Didn’t think. My hand shook when I reached into his jacket. My fingers found leather. The left glove. Also warm. From inside the bedroom, Tunde mumbled in his sleep. “Zara... no...” The right glove on the table flared hot. And for the first time in three months, I smelled my sister’s perfume. Dusk was coming through the windows. Folding the room into sharp shadows. Like an origami knife. The glove wasn’t done pointing.