The first black glove appeared on a misty autumn morning. I was trudging along my usual route to work, a winding path through a small park that cut off a good ten minutes from my commute. The glove lay sprawled on a bench, fingers outstretched, as if pleading for attention. Black leather, finely made. I glanced around but saw no one who might have dropped it. Picking it up, I inspected the delicate stitching, the soft, supple leather. A quality glove, I thought, tucking it into my coat pocket.
Over the next few days, I tried to forget about the glove, but it seemed intent on reminding me of its presence. Every time I reached into my coat pocket, there it was, a silent reminder of a mystery I hadn't yet realized existed. I had no idea that this was only the beginning.
Two weeks later, on an unusually warm November evening, I found another glove. This time, it was on the seat of the bus I took home. The bus was nearly empty, save for an elderly woman dozing at the back. The glove was identical to the first, the same rich black leather, the same fine stitching. I stared at it, a cold shiver running down my spine. Coincidence, I told myself, albeit a strange one. I slipped it into my pocket next to the first.
The third glove appeared in my office. It was lying on my desk one Monday morning, perfectly centered on top of my paperwork. My office was small, with only a handful of employees, none of whom owned gloves like these. I asked around, but no one claimed it or had seen anyone leave it there. This was no longer a coincidence. Someone was leaving these gloves for me to find.
Weeks turned into months, and the gloves continued to appear. I found them in the most unexpected places: on my doorstep, inside my mailbox, even in my car. Each glove was identical, and always only one—never a pair. They seemed to follow me, appearing wherever I went, as if the mysterious person behind them had an uncanny ability to anticipate my every move.
The gloves began to haunt my dreams. I saw them everywhere, even when I was awake. I became paranoid, constantly looking over my shoulder, expecting to catch a glimpse of the person leaving them. But they were never there, only the gloves, always the gloves.
I started keeping a journal, documenting each find in meticulous detail. The dates, the locations, the circumstances. I hoped that by analyzing the data, I could find some pattern, some clue to the identity of my mysterious benefactor. But there was no pattern, no logic to their appearances. The gloves were a mystery, and so was the person leaving them.
My obsession with the gloves began to affect my life. I became withdrawn, consumed by the enigma that had invaded my world. Friends and family noticed the change in me, but I couldn't explain it to them. How could I tell them about the gloves without sounding insane?
One particularly cold winter night, I returned home to find my front door slightly ajar. Panic surged through me as I pushed it open, my heart pounding in my chest. Inside, everything was as it should be, except for one detail. On my living room table, in the exact center, lay a single black glove.
This was the final straw. I couldn't take it anymore. I had to know who was doing this and why. I installed cameras around my house, hoping to catch the mysterious person in the act. Days passed, then weeks, but the gloves stopped appearing. I wondered if they somehow knew about the cameras, if they were watching me as closely as I was watching for them.
Just when I was beginning to believe the gloves were gone for good, they started appearing again, but this time in places the cameras couldn't see. My office, my gym locker, even inside my coat pockets. The person was mocking me, I was sure of it, taunting me with their ability to evade detection.
One evening, exhausted and defeated, I decided to take a different route home. I wandered aimlessly through the city, my thoughts consumed by the gloves. As I passed a narrow alley, something caught my eye. There, in the shadows, was a figure, their face obscured by a hood. I stopped, my heart racing. The figure slowly raised a hand, and in it, they held a black glove.
I took a step forward, then another, until I was standing at the mouth of the alley. The figure remained still, their face hidden, the glove extended toward me. Summoning all my courage, I spoke.
"Who are you? Why are you doing this?"
The figure didn't respond. Instead, they dropped the glove and vanished into the darkness. I rushed forward, but the alley was empty. The glove lay at my feet, a silent testament to the encounter. I picked it up, feeling its familiar texture, its weight in my hand.
The gloves never appeared again after that night. The mystery remained unsolved, but I found a strange sense of closure in that final encounter. The person, whoever they were, had given me a gift—a riddle that had consumed me but also made me see the world differently. I no longer needed to know who they were or why they had chosen me. The gloves were a part of my life, a part of my story, and that was enough.
Years later, I still have the gloves, each one carefully stored in a box under my bed. Sometimes I take them out and look at them, remembering the mystery that once was. The black gloves are my reminder that some questions don't have answers, and some mysteries are best left unsolved.
