Softly.
Sideways.
Never pushing a door open when he could leave it unlocked and let you choose.
That was how Thomas did things.
I unzipped the backpack with shaking hands.
There was no money.
No jewelry.
No legal papers that made me rich or trapped me in some strange obligation.
Only envelopes.
Dozens of them.
There was no money.
Each labeled with a place.
Bus Stop.
Grocery Store.
Airport.
Laundromat.
Park Bench.
Waiting Room.
Hospital Chapel.
At the very bottom sat a battered notebook with bent corners, but I didn’t open it yet.
At the very bottom sat a battered notebook.
The envelopes bothered me more.
I picked up Bus Stop first.
Inside was an old train ticket, softened by age.
On the back, Thomas had written:“She finally went.”
I stared at those words until they blurred.
Went where?
Who was she?
Why keep the ticket?
The envelopes bothered me more.
