Old leather. Worn from years of use. Thick.
When I opened it, my breath caught.
Inside were stacks of hundred-dollar bills.
Neatly folded.
More money than I’d seen in my bank account in years.
For a second my brain started running numbers.
Rent.
Electric bill.
New shoes for the kids.
Groceries.
That money could fix a lot of problems.
At least for a little while.
Then I saw the ID.
An elderly man. Late seventies.
Gary.
Tucked inside the wallet was also a small handwritten note with a phone number and an address.
My chest tightened.
I closed the wallet and locked it inside my toolbox.
Even finishing my shift felt strange after that. My heart kept racing like I had done something wrong just by finding it.
When I got home, my mom was making spaghetti.
The kids were sitting at the table doing homework.
My daughter ran up and wrapped her arms around my waist.
“Daddy!”
I smiled, but my mind was still on that wallet.
“Long day?” my mom asked.
“Yeah,” I said.
After dinner, once the kids were asleep, I grabbed the wallet and told my mom I had to run an errand.
The address wasn’t far.
A small house with a porch light glowing in the dark.
I sat in the car for a minute before knocking.
Part of me wondered if he’d think I was the one who stole it.
But eventually I walked up and knocked on the door.
The man who opened it looked exactly like the photo on the ID.
Thin. Gray hair. Leaning on a cane.
I held up the wallet.
“I think this belongs to you.”
His eyes widened as he opened it.
For a moment he just stared.
Then his shoulders dropped with relief.
