Every evening, I would see a lonely little girl with a red bag at the bus stop. One morning, I discovered her bag on my doorstep.

Same time. Same place. Same red bag.

Her stillness was both haunting and magnetic. By the third evening, curiosity had me pacing my living room like a caged journalist chasing an elusive story. I found myself drawn to the window, my professional instinct to investigate bubbling beneath my skin.

I peeked out, trying to appear casual, trying not to look like the newcomer desperate to understand the neighborhood’s unspoken rhythms. There she was again. Motionless.

Watchful. “Alright, Samantha,” I muttered to myself, using the same tone I’d use when approaching a reluctant source, “just ask if she’s okay.”

I opened the door and stepped outside, the wooden porch creaking beneath my feet. But before I could call out and bridge the silent distance between us, she turned.

In one fluid, almost choreographed movement, she bolted down the street, her red bag bouncing against her back like a warning flag. I stood there, feeling more lost than she appeared to be, watching her tiny figure disappear into the twilight like a phantom that had chosen mystery over explanation, and silence over conversation. The next morning started like any other, the weak sunlight filtering through my kitchen window, casting long shadows across the worn linoleum.

I was halfway through my cereal, the bland cornflakes turning soggy in milk, when something caught my eye through the window. I opened the door, and there it was: the little girl’s red bag, sitting like a silent sentinel on my doorstep. For a moment, I just stared at it.

The strap was worn thin, bearing the marks of countless journeys. Frayed edges, faded color, and with tiny repairs that spoke of careful pContinue reading…