I worked in a fast-food restaurant back then. Nothing fancy. Long shifts, aching feet, the smell of fries clinging to my clothes long after I got home. It was the kind of job where days blended together—order numbers, buzzing timers, impatient customers tapping their fingers on the counter.
One evening, near closing time, I was wiping down tables when I noticed something sitting alone in a booth.
A handbag.
Not just any bag.
Even from a distance, I could tell it was expensive. Clean lines. Perfect stitching. The kind of bag you see in magazine ads, not forgotten next to half-empty soda cups. A Louis Vuitton.
My first thought wasn’t excitement. It was panic.
Someone had clearly left it behind. I looked around the restaurant. A couple finishing their fries. A tired mom herding kids toward the door. No one rushing back in, no one frantically checking pockets.
I grabbed the bag and took it straight to the back, to the lost and found cabinet. That’s what we were trained to do. No drama. No touching. Just log it and move on.
Still, all night, I couldn’t stop thinking about it.
Who forgets a bag like that?
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