The Forgotten Backpack

The kid realized it halfway down the street. Their hands were swinging,

light and empty, and that was the problem. No backpack tugging at their shoulders.

No zipper jingle. Just air. They stopped. The school bell rang somewhere far

ahead, sharp and bossy. “I forgot it,” the kid whispered, as if the morning

itself had played a trick. They thought about turning back, but the clock in

their head was already ticking too loud. So they kept walking, every step heavier than a backpack

ever was. At school, the teacher paused when the kid reached their desk.

“Backpack?” she asked. The kid shook their head, cheeks warm.