It had been one of those days. You know the kind: running late, spilled coffee on my shirt, toddler crying in the car over the wrong granola bar. And then there was the lingering issue of my half-dangling bumper, hoping nobody would notice, though clearly, they did.
Finding a folded sheet of paper under my windshield wiper, I groaned, expecting a ticket. But what I found was unexpected.
It wasn’t a complaint or a grievance about my car’s missing bumper. Instead, there was a $50 bill and a handwritten note:
“Your car lacks a front bumper, I noticed. Maybe this helps somewhat. Yours truly, Someone trying to make this year better.”
I stood there in disbelief, blinking in the grocery store parking lot while others passed by, oblivious.
I took the note home and put it away, thinking it might be a prank. But the next morning, there was another one. Different handwriting, same note. This time, it wasn’t on my car; it was in my house. It felt like whoever was doing this knew more than they should.
Trying to ignore it didn’t work. Two days later, I found a third note at work, with another $50 bill:
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