I bought the bag because it reminded me of my mother — classic leather, faintly scented with lilac and memories. But when I reached into the side pocket, my fingers touched something smooth and cool. Under the kitchen light, I saw it clearly — a crescent shape, soft and anatomical, with an unused adhesive strip. No labels. No brand. It didn’t belong.
It looked harmless, yet unsettlingly intimate, as if meant for the body. The next day, I showed it to my coworkers. Guesses flew — a wrist rest, a bra insert, an orthopedic pad — but none seemed right. I couldn’t shake the feeling that it had a specific, hidden purpose.
Later, I examined it again. Fine pressure marks lined the edges, like something once pressed against it repeatedly. When I searched online, I finally found a match: comfort inserts for luxury heels. Yet, this one felt different — too precise, too custom-made.
Curious, I took it to a local boutique. The owner’s face changed the moment she saw it. “Where did you get this?” she asked. When I told her it came from a thrift-store bag, she said quietly, “These aren’t sold. They’re custom-fitted to designer heels — for models, presenters. Always in pairs.”
That night, I emptied the bag completely. Hidden in a small pocket was a folded note: “Meet me where we last stood — bring the other one.” My stomach turned cold.
A few days later, I saw a poster — a missing woman, Veronica Hale, last seen leaving a fashion event in designer heels. Her handbag had been mistakenly sold through donation.
I checked the insert again. Tiny letters read V.H. 02. I returned the bag to the thrift store that night. By morning, it was gone.
Some things aren’t meant to be found twice.
