The Museum of Broken Souls

In a forgotten part of Paris, down a street not on any map, stands a museum that only opens for those who’ve lost something they can’t name. Inside, glass cases hold strange objects — a tear in a jar, a wilted feather, a half-burned photograph.

Each has a plaque with a single word: Memory. Regret. Love.

Visitors say the air hums faintly, like a thousand sighs at once. The curator never speaks, but when you leave, she slips something into your pocket — a fragment of glass, warm as skin.

Later, at home, it starts to beat.