I was seven months pregnant, riding the bus, when an elderly woman got on. No one offered her a seat, so I stood up and gave her mine. She sat down and locked eyes with me—intensely, almost unnervingly.
When she got up to leave, she slipped something into my coat pocket without a word. I reached in and froze.
It was a set of house keys.
They hung from a small, faded sunflower keychain, worn from years of use. Confused, I assumed she’d made a mistake. Maybe she meant to give them to someone else? I turned to call out, but she was already off the bus, disappearing into the street, surprisingly quick for someone her age.
“Ma’am! Wait!” I shouted from the window, but she never looked back.
The bus pulled away before I could follow. I sat there, stunned. What had just happened?
That night, I couldn’t stop thinking about it. The keychain had a name etched faintly into the back—“Luci”—along with a faded address scribbled on a peeling label: 9 Mercer Lane.
When I told my boyfriend, Dorian, he just laughed. “People drop random stuff into bags all the time. Don’t read into it.”
But I couldn’t stop thinking about her eyes. They weren’t soft or friendly, but purposeful. Like she meant for me to have those keys. Like she recognized me.
Two days later, curiosity won. I went to check the address.
The house at 9 Mercer Lane was a small, worn-down cottage. It looked forgotten but not abandoned. The mailbox read L. Wynn. Same as on the keychain.
I stood outside, unsure, my pregnant belly aching. I almost turned around. But I couldn’t forget her stare—the weight of it.
I tried the key. It fit.
Inside, everything was still. Dusty but lived-in. A ticking clock. A faint scent of lavender. It didn’t feel haunted. It felt paused, waiting.
On the kitchen table sat a sealed envelope. My full name was written on the front.
I opened it with trembling hands.
*Dear Nessa,
You don’t know me, but I know you.
I knew your mother before she passed. You were just a baby in her arms. Life wasn’t kind to her, and I carry the guilt of not doing more when I had the chance. I watched from afar.
You’re not alone. I don’t have much, but this house is paid for. I have no children, no family—just memories. You and the baby need it more than I do.
I hope, someday, you’ll understand.
With love,
Lucinda Wynn*
I sat there for a long time, overwhelmed. She knew my mother. The woman who died when I was three. I’d only heard fragments about her growing up—and no one had ever mentioned a Lucinda.
But that look in her eyes made sense now.
Like she’d seen a ghost.
