Margen
In the kitchen there's a drawer that answers to no one.
Candles from a birthday with no cake, a screw left over from the shelf —the shelf holds, the screw waits—, two batteries that might, the manual for a washing machine that no longer lives here.
None of this is useful. None of this gets thrown away.
Every house has a drawer like this: a neutral country, a waiting room for what was useful once.
Open it slowly. Nothing in there has died: it's pending.