These days I live in a quiet town in the east of France. Exceptionally safe. People leave their things outside, they don’t use locks on lockers, they don’t worry about securing their doors. Nothing happens here. Nothing odd. Just what you’d expect from a place like this.

The other day I passed by the police station and noticed something: a coffee cup on the windowsill, next to an ashtray. The patrol car parked nearby. The routine of those policemen came to mind. Every morning at the station, with nothing to do, no crimes to solve. They go out for a cigarette and a coffee. Is that the highlight of their day?

Suddenly I was invaded by intrusive thoughts. What would happen if I took that cup? I’d simply make it disappear. Not out of need, nor out of malice. On the contrary, maybe it would be something new. A new case to solve. Something to do. Maybe they’d get so excited they’d launch a whole investigation. They’d dust off the files. They’d get home at night to tell their families what had happened. Maybe it would give them a reason to get up the next morning. A new mystery in Briançon. Maybe I’d be the villain this town needs. Like Batman in Nolan’s saga. And what if, after a few days, I put the cup back where it was? The case would go down in history as the greatest mystery in this town in the last decade.

I kept staring at the cup. Weighing my escape options. The plan was perfect. All so casual. Do I do it? Or not?… Or yes?

The wind is the only witness. There are things you don’t do, and sometimes it’s better to ask forgiveness than permission. They would understand. I’ll leave soon, and so will the cup.