His house was small and older. The paint was peeling in patches near the windows. It was the kind of home that had clearly seen better years but refused to give up on itself.I knocked. For a moment, nothing happened. Then the door creaked open slowly. An older man stood there, his shoulders slightly hunched, his eyes tired and a little wary of a stranger on his porch this late.
“Can I help you?” he asked carefully.
I held up the wallet without saying a word. His reaction was almost instant. His eyes widened. His hand shot out, trembling, as he gently took the wallet from me.“You. Where did you,” he stammered, unable to finish his sentence.
“Found it at the shop where I work,” I said gently. “It was under one of the lifts.”He opened the wallet quickly, flipping through the contents as if he were afraid it might vanish in his hands. Then his entire body seemed to sag with relief.
“Oh, thank goodness,” he whispered. His eyes filled with tears.“I thought it was gone,” he said softly. “I thought I had lost everything I worked for.”
