You were not expecting objects. The corridor should be empty. The corridor is not empty.
01
A coat. Grey wool. Long, academic style. I own a coat like this. I checked when I got home: my coat was on its hook. But this coat, here, is also mine — identical, worn in the same places, carrying the same old coffee stain on the right lapel that I have been meaning to have cleaned for two years.
The coat's pockets contained: one pen (out of ink), three receipts (dates partially legible: all earlier this year), and a small folded note I could not bring myself to open.
02
Three books. My books. From my library upstairs. I checked: they are still on the shelf. But these copies — here, on the floor of a basement that shouldn't exist — are more worn than the copies I have. Dog-eared. Annotated in my handwriting. The annotations describe experiences I have not yet had. Or have not yet remembered having.
03
A coffee cup. I identified it by the chip in the handle — a chip I made last March. The cup was upstairs this morning. It is here now. It has been here longer than today. The inside is dry and dark. Whatever was in it has been here long enough to evaporate completely.
// I did not bring this. I am the only one who has entered this basement.
"I am not going to take anything. I am going to note it and continue. I am a researcher. I observe. I do not intervene. I know this is the wrong attitude for this situation but it is the only one I have." — C. Jiang
// Depth estimate: approximately 14 metres. This would place us well below the water table.
// No water visible. No dampness. The objects are dry.
// Temperature: still 4°C. The cold is not decreasing with depth. It is exactly the same as the fountain.
the objects are from Jiang's future. the coat was left behind when she went further in and did not come back. the books are annotated by a version of her that has already been here and returned and come back again. the coffee cup is simply a coffee cup. some things have mundane explanations.