Itzél decided that the only consolation to a shitty week was a pre-loved treasure from her favorite second-hand shop. It’s a win-win. Her money will go to a good cause that’s benefitted the community; and she’ll have a buttery-soft sack of serotonin from one of the estates linked to that cause. The sounds of her steps were that of a woman on a mission. The stomps only got louder and faster with every passing thought.

She wouldn’t let that day ruin any more of her life. Did she find them? Yes. Did the reality of it hurt worse than whatever she’d hate-think any time her gut knew they were lying? Yes. Did the instant rage searing there during that moment feel both comforting and painful? YES. Did the tears burn her eyes so much that it hurt to shut them for hours after? …yes.

And when she screamed and lunged in, did she tear her favorite bag as she wielded it in a blacked out scorned charge? Also yes.

So, to hell with it. Love clearly is an irreparable bust—at least she can replace the fucking bag.

Little bells sang as the door swung open. The scent of beautiful lives gone past rushed her senses when she finally walked in. Itzél felt like she was supposed to be there. That there was a new addition in her life just waiting to be picked up to brighten her mood. It only took a few minutes rummaging around the shop. A bevy of beautiful rainbow folds on a cross-body bag caught her attention.

The design didn’t look like a repro, the quality was too good for that. It had to have been at least fifty years old. The patchwork was so beautiful—it was almost magical how it blended all together. The stitches could have been an optical illusion if not for feeling the soft decorative lines as she ran her fingers across them. She ignored the hand-written price tag dangling on the handle with twine. It didn’t matter. What it represented was priceless.

“Start new with me”, it said. And moments of sitting at parks and cafes, with the bag next to her as if cheering her on while writing line after line, just rushed in like a tide.

“Found you”, Itzél whispered—as if the final declaration was a spell.

Itzél marched to the cashier, didn’t even balk at the price, and just handed the cash over. Did she see a bemused smirk? Maybe. It felt more encouraging than anything. It’s just a bag, sure. But it’s the bag that’s carrying everything she needs onto a new adventure. She walked out and heard the door shut behind her with a jingle.

Unsure of what to do next, she gripped the bag tighter and just started walking back home. The impulsive rush was over and the mundane started to set back in. It was a calmer stride. She lived around the corner, but it felt longer with every weighted step. Her door was the post, the goal. It felt like a win when she finally reached it. After Itzél shut her door and felt the lock latch in, she sighed. Her mind started to nag her.

Just focus on the bag.

So, she did. She set it on the kitchen counter and started to prep it for the mementos of her life. The pens, journal and lost ambitions. As she dug through each crevice, she found a small zipper inside—on the bottom and to the side. It didn’t feel large enough to hold anything. Maybe a key. A key! Adventure. Another “maybe” and “what if” that could spur certain thoughts back elsewhere.

Itzél kept wriggling her fingers along it. The zipper was bigger than she thought. The bit first found was just exposed from the initial fumbling. Reaching her fingers around further, Itzél found that it ran along the entire bottom of the bag. It was sandwiched between thick material pretending to be the final lined interior. Something started to peak out when Itzél was unzipping it.

It wasn’t cloth, but paper. Paper with a large pressing of heavy and smudged crimson wax. It was hard to make out if it once had an image laid into it. Like a blurred dream.

Itzél finally pulled it out.

An envelope. She handled the find with care and examined it. No name. Thick with confessions, maybe. Itzél mused at the maybe. There was that rush again. The beautiful distracting pull. Carefully gliding her fingertips along the wax, she lifted it—trying to keep the pressing whole.

There were several yellowed pages of heavy paper folded into each other. A letter. She read the first paragraph and it ignited warmth. It was like a jolt of inspiration—to write, to research. This was a story. A story that could help her. It wasn’t hers, but that was the point.

Did her reality of love turn out to be a disasterous disappointment? Yes. And in spite of that, could the story of someone else’s love help the idea of it live on? Also yes. Like bottled hope. Whatever romance was in the life of the bag’s previous owner could help preserve the fantasy. A past-life encapsulating a beautiful idea.

They’re connected now, by that patchwork treasure. This person’s love could help keep those hopeful embers alive long enough to write about them. They could share the story. Their story. Maybe this letter, and the adventure that might come with it, could sustain the illusion of love longer than she ever could in her own life.

It would start here. Itzél knew it now. She could write about them as she researched them—and share in their secrets. In their love. Dreams of the parks and cafes came back with clearer context, and carried excitement with them. So she read the first words one more time, with feeling.

“My love, it’s time for life to begin”.