The Suitcase was a humble fellow. He was patient and did as he was told. He would open when his master wanted him to and he would close when his master wanted him to. He would enjoy the walk to and from work, relaxing in the sun, revelling in the breeze and battering against the rain and the snow.

However, one day the Suitcase noticed something different about his master. His master was hunched over. The Suitcase noticed many wrinkles on his master’s face and grey hair, or lack of. The Suitcase saw his master cough. It was a slow, wheezing cough that seemed to stay in his master’s throat forever. His master slumped in a chair. The Suitcase noticed how old the chair looked; even though it only seemed like yesterday that it was brand new. His master was coughing profoundly, phlegm and a red substance spraying out over a strangely old coffee table. His master slumped back and closed his eyes.

The Suitcase waited for a long time. He waited for his master to get up and take him out to work. He waited for the cool breeze to flow over him, for the smell of cut grass, for the sound of birds singing in the sky. But that never came. There was no cool breeze. There was no sweet smell. The only bird song he heard was slow and mournful, singing away his demise.

Eventually the Suitcase began to feel tired. He tried looking at himself in a grubby mirror but only saw a battered suitcase looking back at him. He sighed and felt a heavy feeling creep over him. He began to crumple, he began to fade. All that’s left of him is a pile of old leather, and a spot where the sun hasn’t touched.