Days passed. Then a week. Every time I worked, I half-expected someone to burst through the door, breathless, asking about a bag they’d lost. But it never happened.
Two weeks turned into three.
A month went by.
One slow afternoon, my manager called me into the office. He leaned back in his chair, arms crossed, and said, almost casually,
“Hey, remember that designer bag someone left?”
I nodded.
“No one’s claimed it,” he said. “Company policy says after 30 days, it’s yours if you want it.”
I laughed, thinking he was joking.
“Seriously,” he said. “Do you want it?”
I hesitated. I wasn’t the kind of person who owned luxury things. My wardrobe was jeans, hoodies, worn-out sneakers. But part of me felt like maybe—just maybe—life was throwing me a small break.
“Sure,” I said finally.
He handed it to me. The same bag, untouched, still elegant, still mysterious.
When my shift ended, I took it home. I set it on my bed and just looked at it for a while. It felt strange, like it didn’t belong in my tiny room with thrift-store furniture and chipped nail polish bottles.
Slowly, I unzipped it.
I expected something. A wallet. Makeup. A phone charger. Maybe cash tucked into a side pocket.
But there was nothing.
No lipstick. No keys. No credit cards.
Just a single folded piece of paper at the bottom.
continued on next page
