Dear Friends,

The notebook had been stashed between the pipe and wall and was bound in multiple layers of plastic wrap and clear packaging tape.

When presented to my wife, she could only shrug at the curiosity of it, and insist we open it immediately.

I dug into my too seldom utilized art kit to retrieve an X-ACTO knife, and with my glasses perched atop my forehead, I leaned close and began to surgically cut into the plastic.

We were two months into the kitchen renovation when we found it. We thought the discovery of the furnace vent pipe behind the former broom closet was the most intriguing revelation during this process, but the notebook added a new wrinkle.

The notebook was unassuming, unremarkable, yet unbelievably intriguing. I held it gingerly and turned over in my hands with care. It was cool to the touch and heavier than it seemed it should be.

The hard black cover was smooth under my fingertips but when it caught the light, an ocean of tiny dots were revealed. Slight imperfections, dents, and scratches gave the notebook the notion of character. The bottom right corner was stained blue and black where broken pens had bruised the ivory paper. The top and bottom of the spine had small tears indicative of the regular placement and removal from a pack, or having been stored and frequently removed from a standing shelf. The woven bookmark ribbon stuck out from the middle of the paper stack like the tongue of a cartoon animal. The debossed letters on the lower back cover were worn nearly smooth.

It was well used and well loved, but not particularly old. The oddity and absurdity of finding something like this hit hard. I dropped the book and for a moment felt an overwhelming guilt. Someone had hidden that notebook for a presumably good reason, and I just plucked it out, believing I had some right to do so.

Then, that moment passed.

My wife and I looked at each other for a beat and an unspoken understanding passed between us. Secret or not, the notebook was in OUR house. Whatever the reason the notebook was secreted and left behind was immaterial. It was now our notebook. Legally.

And, maybe, it was intentionally left there. For us.

I gathered the notebook in my hands again, gently released the elastic closure, and peeled open the front cover.

Neatly printed in light grey on the flyleaf page were the words: “In case of loss, please return to:” and four evenly spaced lines underneath. In lieu of a name and address, this was written:

“You have already found the notebook, though it was never actually lost, and by holding it in your hands and reading these words, it has been returned to the rightful owners.”

Underneath that was another printed line: “As a reward: $ _____” and instead of a dollar amount, there was a large heart, hand drawn in black ink.

The next page beckoned.

I reached with slightly trembling fingers to slip the flyleaf between my thumb and forefinger and delicately flipped it over, smoothing it down along the crease of the inner spine.

The page was blank.

I turned to the next page. Blank. The next four pages, flipped through in rapid succession, were also untouched.

My wife reached over and began to flip the pages herself. All blank.

She grabbed the entirety of the remaining sheaf of ivory paper and thumbed through to the end.

Every round edged page was a pristine collection of 31 parallel soft grey lines against a creamy off-white background, and nothing more.

Until the last page.

The final sheet had “11/12/14” written in the top left corner, followed by a lengthy hand-written entry.

“Dear friends,

If you are reading this entry, then congratulations, you have been enfolded into a bold and curious karmic experiment. An idea that, we hope, you choose to further. You do not know us. We are strangers. That being said, we feel inexorably connected to you. Now, we are closer than kin. In the pocket attached to the back cover of this notebook, you will find 2 bills. They are older notes, but still legal tender. Their face value, though impressive, belies their true value. They are yours. “

I stopped reading and locked eyes with my wife. She turned over the adjacent flyleaf page, revealing the aforementioned pocket, the glued fabric sides bulged slightly indicating something was indeed concealed within. My wife snuck her fingers under the lip of the pocket and I could see the goosebumps rise from her skin as she withdrew a small parcel.

The thinly padded envelope was black and open along the top. She reached in and removed 2 items, each encased in a thin plastic sleeve.

At first glance, they appeared to be regular dollar bills, but when we saw the “10,000” in ornate block printed letters in each corner of the bills, we knew there was nothing regular about them.

My wife set the bills down and her hands recoiled immediately to her face, cupping her mouth and nose, tears welling in her eyes. My bottom jaw stopped working and hung open.

The bills were in a pristine state. No tears, wrinkles, or stains. They were simple as far as decoration goes, compared to the more common notes, and the portrait, labeled “CHASE”, was someone I didn’t recognize as being historically significant.

My wife lowered her hands and mouthed the words: “Twenty thousand dollars”, as tears began to wet her cheeks.

I couldn’t fathom the decision, or series of decisions that lead someone to want to part with these. Or why they would leave them to strangers. Or potentially risk them never being found, between the pipe and the wall. What if it was all a dream, or a joke? So many questions bubbled to the surface. The reality of the situation had yet to fully sink in.

Again, we turned our attention to the notebook to finish reading the entry.

“Rest assured that this gift is genuine. As to the reason for it, let’s say that we are paying it forward. We found this notebook while hiking. We were hunting for a geocache and found this treasure instead. There was a similar note written by the people who had it before us, and 3 of those remarkable bills in the pocket. We sold one to an eager private collector for, well, the number is not important, but it was much more than face value. So now we come to the most important part of this journey, the passing of the torch. The notebook and the money are yours now. Do with it as you please. Cash them out and burn the book. Put them back where you found it and try to forget about it. Or, do what everyone else seems to have done, take one bill and pass the rest along. Although there are no rules or stipulations to accepting the money, we have one request: Have fun. Treat yourselves to things that you love with the people that you love. Enjoy the gift in the spirit that it was discovered, like buried treasure. We don’t know how or why this notebook exists, but we do believe in the positive nature of its intent. We hope you do too. So now it’s your turn. If you decide to continue the chain, claim your bill and put the other one back in the pocket. Tear out this note and write your own for the next deserving souls. Then, find a hiding spot for the notebook. And that’s it. Be safe and good luck.”

We were both crying by the end of the note.

Without a word spoken between us, my wife set one bill aside and placed the other bill back into the black padded envelope. I flipped back to the pocket of the notebook and held it open. My wife kissed the envelope gently and slipped it into the notebook pocket. I turned the flyleaf page back over to cover the pocket and pressed the page down lightly, holding it there for a moment. My hopes, desires, regrets, triumphs, ill will, and good intentions seeped through my fingertips into the paper.

My wife placed her hand on mine and leaned her head against my shoulder.

After a knowing pause, I released my hand and reached up to caress her cheek.

She placed her palm against the notebook and with the other hand, carefully detached the note from the sheaf, placing it next to the bill.

I ran a finger along the torn remains of the previous pages that had been ripped out of the notebook. My mind reeled at the limitless potential represented by those tiny remnants of paper, and the possibilities ahead for us.

I grabbed a pen from the mug on the table, clicked the top to expose the writing tip, and turned back the last page. In the top left corner I wrote the date. I dropped the ballpoint tip to the next line and hovered there, uncertain.

My wife brought up her phone and opened the web browser. She tilted her head up to kiss my cheek then turned her attention back to the phone and typed “Bora Bora vacation” into the search bar.

We shared a knowing smile, and I began to write.