Saturday Afternoon

When she brought the coat, it felt like a joke, at first a weird little indulgence. A vintage men’s overcoat from Goodwill on a Tuesday for only $14.99. She bought it because she liked how heavy it felt. Coats do not feel heavy anymore. Everyone tries to make everything light. At home, she realized the lining was handstitched. Like someone repaired it by hand not a factory repair.

That is when she felt the bump. Along the inside lower hem on the right panel a little stiff ridge under the satin. She took a seam ripper and opened it carefully, only a couple of inches. Inside: a strip of muslin, folded like a fortune cookie slip. Handwriting in pencil.

If you are reading this, you are the next one. The instructions are in the left pocket.

And she laughed aloud, because of course it was absurd. Campfire ghost story level absurd. And yet her heart pounding, she reached into the left pocket.

There were a small metal key and a second note, much more official looking. Typewritten, old-school typeface, Courier, uneven ink.

locker 307, Spring Street MARTA station. Friday. 833 PM. Do not be early. Do not be late.

She checked the coat again. There was a third thing she missed: a little hand-sewn tag on the neck seam. She thought it was a brand tag. It actually said:

Do not bring a phone.

That night she could not sleep. Is this some kind of… ARG? Performance art? A prank someone planted hoping someday someone would find it. She googled “Locker 307 Spring Street” and got nothing. No news stories, no Reddit threads. Spring Street station did exist. She used to commute through there.

And then she noticed: the typewritten note smelled like old cigarette smoke and lemon oil, the smell of the 1970s office furniture. It did not smell like someone printed this last week to be cute.

Friday came. She went. She did not bring her phone. She wore the coat.

At 8:33 she walked down the stairs to the station, heart in her throat, hands shaking so hard she dropped the key twice. Locker 307 was real, the key fit and the locker opened.

Inside: another coat, same color, same size, same make. Older, more battered.

On top of it, a NEW note. Handwritten. Different handwriting than the first.

Good. now sew your story into the lining of this coat. When you are done, donate it to Goodwill. choose any Goodwill. does not matter. keep the other coat. It is yours now. Welcome.

She took the second coat home.

And she sat down at her kitchen table with needle and thread and a blank strip of muslin, thinking:

“Do I make up a story? Or do I tell the truth?”

She realized then: the story she would sew in would be the first thing she had written in years. She would sew in fear, and the absurdity, and the fact that she followed a stranger’s instructions because something in her life needed mystery more than it needed caution.

She wrote:

Someone out there built a chain of curiosity across decades. Now I am part of it. When you find this: continue it.

Then she folded it small. Sewed it in. And the next day she donated the old coat to a Goodwill on the other side of town. She kept the first coat. Some nights she wears it out even when it is too warm.

Heavy coats feel like responsibility. Like inheritance. Like a story.