Marry the girl who doesnt know what this is!

I bought the bag because it reminded me of my mother. The leather was classic, soft yet structured, the kind she used to carry to church on Sundays. It had that faint lilac scent she favored, a mix of perfume and time. The stitching was fine, the clasp still strong, and the shape elegant in a way that belonged to another decade. I told myself it was a lucky find, something that carried quiet history.

Later that evening, when I reached into the side pocket, my fingers brushed against something cool and smooth. It felt out of place, neither coin nor key. Under the kitchen light, I pulled it out and turned it in my palm. It was a small crescent, pale and soft, with an unused adhesive strip along one side. No brand name. No label. Nothing to explain its purpose. It looked harmless at first glance, yet something about it made me uneasy. It was too clean, too deliberate, as if meant to touch the body.

The next day, I brought it to work and showed it to my coworkers. Guesses flew around the break room. One thought it might be a wrist rest for a computer mouse. Another said it looked like a bra insert. Someone else guessed an orthopedic pad. None of the ideas felt right. The object was too refined, almost clinical, as if designed for a single, exact purpose that no one could quite name.

That evening I examined it again. Under a magnifying light, I saw faint pressure marks along the edges, like traces of something once pressed against it many times. I searched online, scrolling through endless product photos. After half an hour, I found something close: comfort inserts for luxury heels. The shape matched, but the texture seemed off. The one in my hand felt too precise, too perfectly molded, almost custom-made.

My curiosity grew. I took it to a small boutique downtown, a place that specialized in repairing designer shoes. The owner was an older woman with sharp eyes. When she saw the insert, her expression changed. She did not touch it right away. Instead, she asked quietly where I had found it. When I told her it came from a thrift-store bag, she went still. After a long pause, she said, “These are not sold in stores. They are custom-fitted to designer heels, usually for models or presenters. They always come in pairs.”

That night, I emptied the bag completely for the first time. Hidden inside a tiny zippered pocket was a folded note. The paper was creased, the ink slightly smudged, but the words were clear. “Meet me where we last stood. Bring the other one.” My stomach turned cold as I read it again.

A few days later, while walking to the grocery store, I passed a telephone pole covered in flyers. One of them stopped me. It showed a young woman with sharp features and dark hair. The name below read Veronica Hale. Missing for two weeks. The notice said she had last been seen leaving a fashion event wearing designer heels. According to the small print, her handbag had been mistakenly donated after she disappeared.

Back home, I looked again at the insert. Along the edge, almost invisible, were tiny engraved letters: V.H. 02. I placed it gently back in the bag. That night, I returned the bag to the thrift store and left it on the counter without a word.

When I came back the next morning, the bag was gone.

Some things are found only once, and some stories are better left unfinished.