Not every vessel holds what it promises.

I came upon the carton near the edge of a well-traveled curb, its red walls upright, its form intact. No collapse. No decay. Just an open mouth, offering nothing in return.

There were no remnants. No salt. No trace of what had been promised. Only the faint, lingering suggestion of it.

It is easy to assume that something so carefully designed to hold would still do so. That behind the color, the structure, the signal, there would be substance. But there was not.

In this line of work, expectation is a liability. What is found is not always fully itself anymore.

Verdict: Keep flying