I Gave a Woman My Seat on a Tram… What She Left in My Bag Left Me in Tears

She looked at me, surprised, then a gentle smile creased her face. “Oh, bless you, dear,” she whispered, her voice raspy. “That’s so kind.”

I just nodded, moving to stand by the door, bracing myself against the swaying. It’s just a seat, I told myself. Doesn’t make you a saint. But still, a tiny, almost imperceptible warmth spread through me. It was a fleeting moment of connection in an otherwise desolate day. I glanced back, and she was settled, her head resting against the window, eyes closed. She looked… peaceful.

Several stops later, she slowly roused herself. She looked around, gathered her bag, and pushed herself up with a sigh. As she shuffled past me, she paused for a moment. Her hand, gnarled and frail, lightly touched my arm. “Thank you again,” she murmured, her eyes meeting mine, and I felt a strange current pass between us. Then she was gone, disappearing into the bustling street.

I rode for another fifteen minutes, lost in my own thoughts, feeling the slight pull of my shoulder bag. When my stop arrived, I reached inside for my phone, ready to queue up a podcast for the walk home. My fingers brushed against something soft, foreign. Not my phone. Not my wallet. Something else.

I pulled it out, frowning. It was a small, crudely wrapped package, tucked right into the side pocket of my bag. I hadn’t put it there. Someone else had.

My heart began to pound with a sudden, inexplicable dread. I unwrapped it, my fingers fumbling. Inside was a small, faded, baby-blue wool blanket. It felt incredibly old, softened by countless washes, and edged with a delicate, hand-stitched lace border. I recognized the pattern. I had seen that exact lace in old family photographs, on a blanket my mother kept, always referring to it as belonging to “the baby we lost.” My older sibling, who died tragically young, before I was born. Or so the story went.

Continue reading…