I was riding the bus, seven months pregnant, the kind of tired that settles into your bones even when your heart feels full. When an older woman stepped on, I didn’t even think twice — I shifted, smiled, and offered her my seat. She accepted with a soft nod and sat down beside me.
She kept glancing at me now and then, not in a way that made me uncomfortable, but in a way that felt strangely tender, like I reminded her of someone she used to cherish. I returned the smile each time, thinking nothing more of it. It felt good to be kind, especially now, especially with a little one on the way.
When the bus slowed at her stop, she rose carefully, bracing one hand against the pole. Just before stepping off, she leaned in slightly and slipped something into my coat pocket. I blinked, startled, but she didn’t explain. She only gave me a small, knowing smile — the kind that holds a thousand unspoken stories — and then she was gone.
The bus lurched forward again, and curiosity tugged at me. I reached into my pocket and closed my fingers around something cool and smooth. When I pulled it out, I realized it was a locket — delicate, old-fashioned, the kind of heirloom that carries history in its clasp.
I opened it slowly.
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