As I walked home one very cold day, I came on a wallet somebody had
lost in the road. I picked it up and viewed inside to find some I’d. so I
could call the owner. But the wallet included only three dollars and a
crumpled letter that seemed as if it had been in there for years.
The package was worn and the only thing that was readable on it was
the come back address. I began to open the letter, hoping to find some
clue.
Then I saw the dateline–1924. The letter had been written
nearly 60 years ago.
It was composed in a wonderful feminine handwriting on powdered blue
stationary with a little flower in the left-hand corner. It was a “Dear
John” letter that told the receiver, whose name showed up to be Michael,
that the writer could not see him any longer because her mother forbade
it. Even so, she wrote that she would always love him.
It was signed, Hannah.
It was a wonderful letter, but there was no way apart from for the
name Michael, that the owner could be recognized. Maybe if I called
details, the operator could fi

nd a phone record for the address on the envelope.
“
Operator,” I began, “this is an uncommon
request. I’m trying to find the owner of a wallet that I found. Is there
in any case you can tell me if there is a phone number for an deal with
that was on an envelope in the wallet?”
She recommended I speak with her owner, who hesitated for a moment then said,
“Well, there is a phone listing at that address, but I can’t give you the number.” She said, as a politeness, she would call that number, explain my story and would ask them if they desired her to connect me.
I waited a few minutes and then she was back on the line.
“I have a party who will speak with you.”
I requested the woman on the other end of the line if she knew anyone
by the name of Hannah. She gasped, “Oh! We bought this house from a
family who had a girl named Hannah. But that was 30 years ago!”
“Would you know where that family could be located now?” I asked.
“I keep in mind that Hannah had to place her mother in a nursing home
some years ago,” the woman said. “Maybe if you got in touch with them
they might be able to monitor down the daughter.”
She gave me the name of the nursing home and I called the number.
They told me the old lady had passed away some years ago but they did
have a phone number for where they believed the daughter might be
living.
I thanked them and contacted. The woman who responded to explained that Hannah herself was now living in a nursing home.
This whole thing was ridiculous, I thought to myself. Why was I
creating such a big deal over discovering the owner of a wallet that had
only three dollars and a letter that was almost 60 years old?
However, I called the nursing home in which Hannah was expected to be living and the man who responded to the phone told me,
“Yes, Hannah is staying with us.”
Even although it was already 10 p.m., I asked if I
could come by to see her. “Well,” he said hesitatingly, “if you want to
take a chance, she might be in the day room viewing television.”
I thanked him and drove over to the nursing home. The night nurse and
a guard welcomed me at the door. We went up to the third floor of the
large building. In the day room, the nurse presented me to Hannah.
She was a lovely, silver-haired old-timer with a warm smile and a
twinkle in her eye. I told her about discovering the wallet and showed
her the letter. The 2nd she saw the powder blue envelope with that
little flower on the left, she took a deep breath and said, “Young man,
this letter was the last get in touch with I ever had with Michael.”

She seemed away for a moment deep in thought and then said softly, “I
loved him very much. But I was only 16 at the time and my mother felt I
was too young. Oh, he was so good looking. He seemed like Sean Connery,
the actor.”
“Yes,” she ongoing. “Michael
Goldstein was an
amazing person. If you should find him, tell him I think of him often.
And,” she hesitated for a moment, almost biting down hard her lip, “tell
him I still love him. You know,” she said happy as tears began to well
up in her eyes, “I never did marry. I guess no one ever matched up to
Michael…”
I thanked Hannah and said goodbye. I took the lift to the first floor
and as I was standing by the door, the guard there asked, “Was the old
lady able to help you?”
I told him she had given me a lead. “At minimum I have a last name.
But I think I’ll let it go for a while. I spent nearly the whole day
trying to find the owner of this wallet.”
I had taken out the wallet, which was a simple brown leather case
with red lacing on the side. When the guard saw it, he said, “Hey, wait a
minute!
That’s Mr. Goldstein’s wallet. I’d
know it anyplace with that bright red lacing. He’s always dropping that
wallet. I must have found it in the halls at least three times.”
“Who’s Mr. Goldstein?” I asked as my hand began to shake.
“He’s one of the old-timers on the 8th floor. That’s Mike Goldstein’s
wallet for sure. He must have lost it on one of his walks.” I thanked
the guard and swiftly ran back to the nurse’s office. I told her what
the guard had said. We went back to the lift and got on. I prayed that
Mr. Goldstein would be up.
On the eighth floor, the floor nurse said, “I think he’s continuing
to in the day room. He loves to read at night. He’s a beloved old man.”
We went to the only room that had any lighting on and there was a man
reading a book. The nurse went over to him and asked if he had lost his
wallet. Mr. Goldstein seemed up with shock, put his hand in his back
pocket and said, “Oh, it is losing!”
“This kind gentleman found a wallet and we considered if it could be yours?”
I handed Mr. Goldstein the wallet and the second he saw it, he smiled
with relief and said, “Yes, that’s it! It must have slipped out of my
pocket this afternoon. I want to give you a reward.”
“No, thank you,” I said. “But I have to tell you one thing. I read the letter in the hope of discovering out who owned the wallet.”
The smile on his face instantly disappeared. “You read that letter?”
“Not only did I read it, I think I know where Hannah is.”
He instantly grew pale. “Hannah? You know where she is? How is she?
Is she still as pretty as she was? Please, please tell me,” he pleaded.
“She’s fine…just as fairly as when you knew her.” I said softly.
The old man smiled with expectancy and asked, “Could you tell me
where she is? I want to call her the next day.” He got my hand and said,
“You know something, Mister? I was so in love with that girl that when
that letter came, my life basically ended. I never wedded. I guess I’ve
always loved her.”
“Mr. Goldstein,” I said, “Come with me.”
We took the lift down to the third floor. The halls were darkened and
only one or two little night-lights lit our way to the day room where
Hannah was sitting alone watching the television. The nurse walked over
to her.
“Hannah,” she said softly, directing to Michael, who was waiting with me in the doorway. “Do you know this man?”
She fine-tuned her glasses, looked for a moment, but didn’t say a
word. Michael said softly, almost in a whisper, “Hannah, its Michael. Do
you remember me?”
She gasped, “Michael! I don’t believe it! Michael! It’s you! My
Michael!” He walked gradually towards her and they appreciated. The
nurse and I left with tears streaming down our faces.
“See,” I said. “See how the Good Lord works! If it’s meant to be, it will be.”
About three weeks later I got a call at my workplace from the nursing
home. “Can you break away on Sunday to attend a wedding? Michael and
Hannah are going to tie the knot!”
It was a wonderful wedding with all the people at the nursing home
dressed up to join in the party. Hannah wore a light beige dress and
looked beautiful. Michael wore a dark blue suit and stood tall. They
made me their best man.
The hospital gave them their own room and if you ever wanted to see a
76-year-old bride and a
79-year-old groom performing like two teenagers, you had to see this couple....for more
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