The table caught my eye on my library trip. Just a folding table with paper bags and a handwritten sign: “FREE LUNCH FOR ANYONE WHO NEEDS.” Actually, it was sweet. Kind. Someone helping in this dirty world. It didn’t bother me at first. Despite skipping breakfast and only having $2 in my account, I grabbed one a week later. Apple slices, peanut butter sandwich, granola bar. Quite simple, but satisfying.
I took another the next day. And another.
Something slipped out with the sandwich last Friday as I opened the bag on a bench across the street. A note. Handwritten in untidy blue pen, folded.
It said, “If you’re reading this, I think we’re connected in more ways than you know.”
No name. No touch. Just that.
I initially thought it was motivational. However, two days later, the bag and message changed.
You lived on Linden St., right? Near the blue house?
My stomach sank. I was raised there.
I now return every morning at 11 a.m. I pretend it’s for the sandwich, but I’m looking for the next clue.
I found another note today. It said one thing:
“Tomorrow. Return early. I’ll attend.”
I paced my tiny apartment like a trapped animal before sunrise. Who left these notes? How did they know Linden Street? Someone from my childhood? Or worse—stalker?
My patience ran out at 7:30. I put on an old hoodie and left, my heart racing. As I approached the free lunch table, autumn leaves crunched underfoot and the air smelt crisp.
I was surprised to find the table prepared. Behind it was a tall woman in a large coat, her face half-hidden by a scarf against the cold. As I approached, her eyes met mine through coffee thermos steam.
“You came,” she murmured, nervously but warmly.
I said “Yeah,” shoving my hands in my pockets. “Who are you? How did you learn about Linden Street?
She hesitated, scanning for eavesdroppers. Then she pointed to the bench. Let’s sit.”
She opened her scarf to show kind brown eyes and deep laugh lines around her mouth as we sat on the wooden slats. She stared at me, tilting her head, as if looking for something familiar.
She finally said, “My name’s Clara.” Clara Hensley. I know your mom.”
Words hit me like a gut punch. After I left our Linden Street house five years ago, my mother died. Although we weren’t close, losing her created a void I hadn’t entirely filled.
Wondering how that relates to this? I questioned, faintly waving at the lunch table.
Clara sighed, removing a tattered photo from her pocket. She gave it to me, and I froze. My mom looked younger and smiling, and a teenage girl who resembled Clara stood alongside her.
She said, “That’s me,” gently. Your mom and I were childhood best friends. Though we parted ways after high school, we maintained in touch. When she became ill… She stopped to catch her breath when her voice cracked. “She asked me to watch you.”
Shocked, I blinked. Definitely not what I expected. Not a prank or stalker, but a nice, caring connection to my history.
“She never mentioned you,” I whispered.
Clara nodded, unsurprised. “She wouldn’t. Mama always protected everyone, even from each other. She wanted no one to feel stuck. Before she died, she told me she worried about you. They said you worked too hard and hid too much.”
I got a throat lump. She was right. Since arriving to the city, I’d focused on work, believing success would fill the vacuum. No, it did not.
“So why the notes?” I requested. Why not chat to me?
