It was a slow, golden morning in late autumn, the kind where sunlight slants through the windows just right — soft, forgiving, and warm. I was behind the counter at the fast-food place where I’d been working for the past year, finally catching a few minutes of quiet after the breakfast rush. The air smelled faintly of coffee, fryer oil, and maple syrup.
That’s when I noticed it.
At a table near the window sat a purse — not just any purse, but a Louis Vuitton, unmistakable even from across the room. The leather gleamed in the sunlight, smooth and perfect, its signature monogram catching the light like a secret. It looked wildly out of place in our little restaurant, where most of the customers were commuters grabbing coffee or parents wrangling kids before school.
At first, I assumed someone had just stepped away — maybe to take a phone call or use the restroom. But the minutes stretched on. Ten. Twenty. Thirty. No one returned.
I walked over, glancing around. The dining area was nearly empty now, the last few patrons finishing their breakfasts. My stomach twisted a little. Something that expensive — left behind like that? It felt wrong to ignore it, but it also felt intrusive to touch it. Still, leaving it there seemed worse. So, I carefully lifted the purse, its weight surprising me, and brought it behind the counter.
“Lost and found,” I told my manager, setting it down gently on the shelf.
He nodded without much interest. “Put it with the others.”
Leave a Reply