I had been writing for half a year without a break. On a rare day off, my girlfriend and I decided to do nothing but take a trip to Kamakura.
Our destination was the “Museum of Lost Objects”. As the train chugged along the Pacific coast on a wintry day, we sat side by side, speculating about what kind of lost things we might find. A baby’s discarded pacifier. A student’s forgotten stationery. A businessperson’s misplaced contract worth millions. The intentional leaving behind of a bouquet and a ring by a heartbroken soul. Lost objects often mark the first chapters of many stories.
We disembarked in a tranquil neighbourhood, where schoolgirls from the seaside town were heading home from the mountains. But where was the museum? After weaving through the winding streets thrice, we finally spotted a faded plastic sign that indeed read “Museum of Lost Objects,” although it looked more like an apartment building than anything else.
“The Museum of Lost Objects as a lost object itself,” I joked.
My girlfriend pouted and did not reply.
The “museum” was in a residential unit. A toothless elderly woman sat at the entrance, charging five thousand yen per person. I thought I had misheard, but she raised both of her hands, palms open. It was indeed ten thousand for two.
My girlfriend glanced at me, but considering our rare day off and the long journey from Tokyo, it seemed a waste to turn back now. I rationalised it as a contribution to the old lady’s livelihood.
Inside, there were indeed lost objects. About a hundred items were displayed in glass cabinets. A broken Ultraman figure (2008, JR Station), a Muji umbrella (2015, McDonald’s), a grey Gameboy (2010, Saizeriya Restaurant), and that was about it. On our way out, we even browsed the ‘souvenir shop,’ where a cardboard box held many ‘lost train tickets,’ each priced at three thousand yen.
“Who would buy lost tickets?” My girlfriend whispered to me, her eyebrows knitting in a frown.
We had initially planned to walk by the sea, but neither of us was in the mood anymore. We took the train back home. My girlfriend remarked that with ten thousand yen, we could have bought a kilo of premium salmon. I held her hand and said, “The Museum of Lost Objects can probably be nothing more than just that. Lost objects are mostly mundane. If things are fascinating to see, they wouldn’t be lost in the first place.”
She nodded. “Maybe we were expecting too much.”
My gaze involuntarily roamed the train carriage, wondering if someone had forgotten something. No Ultraman, umbrellas, or game consoles. Just the train tickets, not lost, but in my hand. What if it were to get lost? Then it might end up in the museum, sold for three thousand yen.
I studied the ticket as one would an antique. It recorded a date and time when someone travelled from one place to another. There was also a tear in the top right corner, probably from when I stuffed it into my pocket.
“Let’s buy another ticket and keep this one as a souvenir,” I suggested.
“Sounds good,” she replied.
Our hands clasped a little tighter.