At the thrift store, I was pricing bras when I found a thick, unmarked envelope in the box. On lunch break, I opened it: hundreds of faded photos—black-and-white Christmases, Polaroid couples, a wide-eyed baby.
One woman appeared in every shot, ageless, unchanged across decades, often on the edge like an outsider.
At the bottom: a photo of *my* thrift store. Me behind the counter, pricing items. On the back, neat handwriting:
“Every life is a collection of things we leave behind. Be careful what you forget—it remembers you.”
I never ate that day. Now, pricing each item, I wonder whose story I hold—and whether someone will one day hold mine.