It came with no return address. Just my name, written neatly on the front of the envelope in handwriting I didn’t recognize.
Inside was a folded note and a twenty-dollar bill, held in place with a single strip of clear tape.
The letter started with:
“Miss Emily,
You may not remember us…”
And honestly, I didn’t. Not at first.
But as I kept reading, it started coming back in pieces—an exhausted couple at the checkout line, their card getting declined, the baby crying in the cart. I remembered the cashier rolling her eyes. I remembered how fast I pulled out my debit card, how I muttered, “It’s fine, just let them go,” and then forgot all about it by the time I got to my car.
Apparently, they didn’t.
