To the Girl Who Needs it Most

“Calling it a night?” Rosie, the barista, asked as I walked up to the register.

I nodded. “Yeah.” I look around the empty shop with it’s worn chairs and hand painted table tops. I found this place about a year before and had fallen in love. It was my home away from home and I was grateful for the inspiration and copious amounts of caffeine it always provided. The shop stayed open until midnight and attracted a strange mix of students and artists who needed a place to work. I had been the last customer to leave the last two nights. “Sorry, I lost track of time. I didn’t mean to hold up your night.”

Rosie smiled, “No worries.” She said. “You looked like you were pretty absorbed in your work. What is it that you are working on?”

I laughed, “I am writing a book. Or trying to anyway, I’ve been working two jobs lately which is why I always end up here so late, it’s the only time I have.”

“Ah,” She said, rubbing her neck. “I know that struggle well.”

Rosie was petite, probably in her late thirties, and had twinkling brown eyes that made you feel at home every time she looked at you. I knew her words were true. She was here when I walked to work in the morning and often closed up at night. She worked crazy hours but I had never caught her without a smile.

I nodded sadly, I was exhausted in body and mind, I knew I was drowning. Someone smarter than me would give up on the book. Nothing would come of it anyway, and the late nights only made my early mornings harder.

“Will you wait here? I just realized that I forgot something.” Rosie asked.

“Sure.” I said. I still needed to pay and I still had twenty minutes before the bus would arrive. Better to wait here than in the cold.

Rosie hurried into the kitchen, her long dark hair swishing behind her. She came back a few minutes later, a little black book clutched to her chest. She rounded the counter, coming to a stop in front of me.

“A customer asked me to give this to you. They asked me not to reveal their identity, and said that you shouldn’t open it until you get home.” Rosie explained, holding the book out to me.

The pages were yellowed and the black leather was soft and worn. Embossed in the lower corner was a year, 1964. I took it gingerly and ran my fingertips over the cover. Who would leave this for me? Why? What was it?

“I-” I started, but didn’t know what to say.

Rosie just chuckled, “For what it’s worth, I think this is a good gift thing.”

“Thank you.” I said.

Rosie nodded, waving me off. “Coffee is on me tonight, go catch your bus.”

“I can’t-”

“Trust me.” She said.

That night I went home and found a note on the first page of the book:

To the girl who needs it most,

You don’t know me, but I am rooting for you. You have potential, a light that can surely get brighter. It’s hard sometimes, to trust yourself, to believe in yourself, so this book is a symbol of somebody doing it for you.

Whoever passed this journal to you is a stranger who knew you needed hope and a once in a lifetime chance at your dreams. Somewhere in these pages you will find a letter and gift to you.

There are only three rules:

You must use the gift to leave your mark on the world.

When you are in a position to do so, you will find another young girl who needs help leaving their own mark on the world. You must write your own letter and tuck a gift of your own in the pages.

This gift should remain anonymous.

Good luck. I am with you.

Tucked in the pages was the key to a safe deposit box.

The letter only said:

Dear Cappuccino Girl,

I know you feel like giving up. I was just like you once, running myself ragged only to see my dreams get harder to attain. I hope this gift is the boost you needed. Focus on what is important to you.

Lean on my strength until you find your own.

I am with you.

I sobbed when I saw the contents of the safe deposit box. A stranger had given me $20,000 to trust myself, to do the work I so badly needed to do, and to give me a chance.

I remembered the book as I smiled and signed my name in the cover of my third book. The girl in front of me reminded me of myself just a few years prior, with her bright, but tired eyes. I saw her when I arrived today. She was sitting cross-legged in the line of people outside the bookstore, a sketchbook in her lap and her head bent close to the page, her cheek streaked with charcoal.

The girl thanked me and left. I watched with tears in my eyes as my agents stopped her in the doorway and handed her a small black book.