The Law of Attraction

Lost items are never really lost. They’re just waiting for the universe to reveal them to their seeker. Take this curiously ornate key, for example. It was left behind, wedged in a seat cushion at the diner where I work. 

I placed a sign by the register: Forget your key? See Becca. 

Months passed, but the key remained unclaimed. The sign grew tattered, like my wasted heart. I poured endless cups of coffee.

Then one Monday, he sat in my station, a carved wooden box before him. 

“I’m Becca,” I said.

He flushed to the roots of his dark auburn hair and mumbled, “I’m Neil.”

“Coffee?”

He nodded, sitting quietly and staring at the box.

“What’s in it?” I asked.

He shrugged. “Don’t know. No key.”

“You lost the key?”

“It was never mine to lose,” he replied. “I found this box behind my bookshop, by the trash.”

“When?”

“A few months ago.”

I stiffened, then looked more closely at the box. “Why haven’t you just forced the lock?”

“Because,” he said, staring at me with eyes as green as sea glass. “It’s a sin to break beautiful things just because you can.”

Shaking, I withdrew the key I had taken to carrying everywhere from my apron pocket, as if I could manifest its owner. “Do you believe in the law of attraction?”

He tilted his head, glancing only briefly at the key. “I do now.” But he was looking at me.

I reached forward, sliding the key into the lock on the front of the box.

Click.