The Echoes of the Yellow Scarf

When Mira stepped off the subway at 14th Street, the crowd swept around her like waves. It was the same platform, same train, same morning routine—but today, something was different.

Clutched in her hand was a yellow scarf. Not hers. She had found it on the park bench she always sat on before heading to work. It was soft, handmade, and slightly frayed at the edges, with initials stitched in the corner: S.H.

She hesitated before picking it up earlier that morning. Normally, she'd ignore lost items, let someone else deal with them. But something about this scarf felt… personal. Like it was meant for her to find.

By the time she reached her office on the 22nd floor of a glass-paneled building, she couldn’t stop thinking about the initials. Who was S.H.? Why did it feel like more than just a lost scarf?

She Googled the initials with “yellow scarf” and “New York”—of course, nothing. A thousand meaningless results.

But then came the dreams.

That night, Mira dreamt of a girl in a yellow scarf standing under a streetlamp, eyes full of sorrow. She said nothing. Just stood. Watching. Silent.

The next night, she returned.

This time, Mira spoke. “Who are you?”

The girl looked up. “Help me find home.”

Mira jolted awake. The scarf was on the chair beside her bed—right where she’d left it. But it looked newer. Less worn. As if time had reversed.

In the days that followed, the dreams grew more vivid. The girl—always in that yellow scarf—stood by a bench, her back to Mira, facing a lake Mira had never seen before. And every time, she'd whisper, “Almost there.”

Mira started drawing the scenes. She was no artist, but the urge was uncontrollable. She filled pages with images of the girl, the lake, the scarf fluttering like a whisper caught in wind.

Her friends thought she was spiraling. “You need sleep,” they said. “You’re obsessing over nothing.”

But she couldn't stop.

One rainy Sunday, Mira walked aimlessly through Central Park, the scarf wrapped around her neck, the dreams echoing in her thoughts. And then—she saw it.

The bench.

Not just any bench. The bench. The one from her dreams.

It faced a small, quiet lake. Willow trees bowed along the edges. A streetlamp flickered nearby. It was all real.

She sat.

A soft breeze passed. Leaves rustled. The scarf lifted slightly.

And then, across the lake, stood the girl.

Real. Flesh and bone.

Same yellow scarf. Same solemn eyes.

Mira stood. “Who are you?”

The girl smiled faintly. “You found me.”

Mira stepped forward, breath caught in her throat. But before she could speak again, the girl turned and walked toward the trees—fading like mist in morning light.

Gone.

Mira looked down.

The scarf had vanished.

In its place, on the bench, was a note.

“Thank you. I’m home now. – S.H.”

That was three years ago.

Since then, Mira walks the park every Sunday. She never saw the girl again, but sometimes, when the breeze picks up just right, she feels a soft warmth on her neck—as if a scarf, unseen, still lingers.

She doesn’t tell many people the story. Who would believe her?

But if you ever find a yellow scarf where it shouldn't be…
Hold on to it.
Someone might be waiting.