One Christmas at the office, we did our usual Secret Santa, $10 limit. I drew Claire, a quiet coworker I barely knew. Wanting something thoughtful, I wandered into a secondhand bookstore and found a worn copy of Oliver Twist with an inscription: “To my darling Claire — Christmas 1998.” The price? Exactly $10. It felt meant to be.
I gave it to her the next day. She opened it and began to cry. Ten years earlier, her house had burned down, destroying almost everything she loved—including her childhood copy of Oliver Twist, a gift from her grandmother. The book I’d found was the same edition, with the same cover, even the same smudge on page ninety. Somehow, it had returned to her.
Claire hugged me, saying, “I don’t need to understand it. I just know it came back.” That Christmas, the office witnessed a quiet miracle. A simple, thoughtful gift bridged years of loss in a way nothing else could.
Weeks later, she gave me a new copy of the book, writing, “For the one who returned a story that never should have found its way back. With love and gratitude — Claire.”
Years after, I walked by the bookstore. It was gone—closed for years. Maybe it was a coincidence. Or maybe it existed just long enough to send one lost book home. That day taught me that kindness, even small and unintentional, can ripple through the world in the most unexpected ways.