Episode 30 - Claimant 33-B

It started with a knock.

Not a doorbell. Not a slam.

A single, polite knock on the glass front door. The kind that said “I could’ve let myself in, but I’m choosing to be civilized today.”

Olivia looked up from her desk.

The man outside looked… normal.

Jeans. Hoodie. Clipboard tucked under one arm. He waved cheerfully.

She buzzed him in.

He stepped through like he’d been there before—which, Olivia suspected, he had. His hoodie read: “I’M A LITTLE LOST, BUT IT’S FINE” in cracked gold print. His shoes were clean but wrong, like they had too many laces.

He gave a short bow and smiled with too many teeth.

“Receptionist Olivia,” he said brightly. “It’s lovely to meet the new anchor.”

She blinked. “I’m sorry, and you are…?”

“Oh, names,” he said, waving a hand. “So sticky. Let’s go with Mr. Fibb. Most people do. I’m here on behalf of Claimant 33-B.”

He handed her the clipboard.

The claim form was crisp, printed in a font she didn’t have on her system.

The ink smelled like warm toast.

CLAIMANT: [REDACTED] OBJECT: [TO BE DELIVERED] CLAIM CODE: 33-B DELIVERY LOCATION: FRONT DESK DELIVERY DATE: YESTERDAY CONFIRMED RECEIPT: OLIVIA (SIGNED)

There was her signature at the bottom.

She had not signed anything.

She looked up.

Mr. Fibb was already glancing around, eyes scanning the Lost + Found box like he could see through the tape.

“Don’t worry,” he said. “It’s not in there yet. But it will be. I just need you to agree to hand it over when it arrives.”

“What is it?”

He tapped the clipboard.

“It’s yours, of course. For now.”

Olivia narrowed her eyes. “And if I say no?”

Mr. Fibb smiled wider.

“Oh, Charles always did pick the tricky ones.”

Behind her, a door opened with a click that hadn’t existed a moment ago.

Down the hallway, Charles’ voice echoed:

“Tell him he still owes me that VHS rewinder from ’98.”

Mr. Fibb sighed.

“And tell him I replaced it with something better. He just never unwrapped it.”

Olivia crossed her arms.

“I’ll hold the claim. I won’t promise the handoff. Not until I know what it is.”

Mr. Fibb’s grin softened into something more genuine.

“Fair,” he said. “Very fair.”

He handed her a tiny envelope.

“For when it shows up. You’ll know.”

She tucked it into her drawer.

When she looked up again—

He was gone.

The mug on her desk now read: “#1 Intermediary.”

And the tea inside?

Still warm.