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She ran her fingers along the fabric, touching cotton, wool, fleece. The thrift store had significant turnover about once a month, and she’d check the second Sunday. At the end of her size, a denim jacket hung on the rack. Vintage. She fit her arms into the thick denim, stretched it over her back, then walked over to a mirror. Looking over herself at odd angles, she pressed her hands into the pockets.

Her fingers caressed folded paper. Carefully, she pulled her hand out and unfolded a note. Scrawled across the top: “To Do” with a date twenty years before. 

“Go to the grocery store. Tomatoes. Bread. Stop at the bank. Call Greg back—tell him Tuesday.”

No. 116