I remembered Thomas’s joy holding that Walkman. It wasn’t just a gadget; it was hope, a reminder that someone cared. That year had been particularly hard—my husband had left in the autumn, taking most of our savings. I juggled two part-time jobs just to cover rent. Watching Thomas wake up to nothing seemed unbearable.
The newspaper included the charity’s contact number, so I called. A warm, slightly crackly voice answered—Mrs. Davies, the elderly coordinator of the drive. She remembered everything and confirmed the Walkman donation had come from a “local businessman who wanted no fuss.” She politely declined to reveal the donor’s name, insisting anonymity preserved “the true spirit of giving.”
A Hidden Note
A few days later, while clearing an old drawer, I discovered a small, handwritten note tucked under receipts and coins. On thick, ivory cardstock, elegant looping letters read:
No signature. The card had been wrapped with the Walkman instruction booklet. In my initial excitement, I hadn’t noticed it. The note hit me with a fresh wave of emotion—it was a personal encouragement, directed at me.
A Neighbor’s Quiet Observation
I shared the discovery with Thomas during our Sunday call. Touched, he suggested we “replicate the Walkman’s magic” by volunteering at a local soup kitchen and donating to a single-parent charity.
“Elegant handwriting, you say? Only one person on this block wrote like that,” she said. “She moved out a year or two after that Christmas.” Clara revealed the name: Mrs. Elara Finch, a retired art teacher who had lived just above us.
