The suitcase lay on the grass, covered with stickers. Paris. Rome. London. Richmond. Bleme. Cairo. Hollywood. Dollywood. Bollywood. Cape Town. Addis Ababa. Canberra. Bendigo. Hobbiton. Gotham. Sunnydale. London Below. Okay, so the last few weren’t real cities, but the stickers were there, I promise.
Something about the battered case fascinated me. I am so not a fan of old-fashion suitcases with broken latches, but I kept drifting back across the yard sale to study it again. Brown with scuffed, torn, corners, it looked like something right out of the Forties. It was held closed by a tattered strap.
“A bit old,” a voice said from beside me. “But that’s a good sturdy design. Can’t get better.”
I looked over at the man hosting the sale. “Pretty much torn up.”
He shrugged. “True, but it’d clean up nice, I bet. Belonged to my grandfather once upon a time. He died a few weeks ago. I found this when I was cleaning up the attic.”
“I’m sorry about your Grandfather. Was this his house?”
The man nodded. “He lived here the last 50 years of his life. Spent most of his time travelling though so he was rarely here. Not until his health started to fail when he was 85.”
“What’s inside?” I asked, surprising even myself. I did not need some old suitcase cluttering up my small abode, yet I couldn’t walk away. Imagined myself putting the old suitcase in my car and taking it home, sitting it in the center of my living room.
The man shrugged. “Didn’t open it so your guess is as good as mine.”
Something flipped in my stomach. “How much?”
“Two bucks. No charge for whatever is inside.”
I pulled out two dollars and handed the bills to the man.
“Thanks. Congratulations on your new suitcase.”
As I wrapped my hand around the handle, I felt a tingle in my fingers, warmth spreading up my arm in a rush. My new suitcase.
Smiling, I headed to my car.