I Found a Letter in a Thrift Store Book—and It Changed the Way I See the World.

I wasn't planning on finding anything that day—let alone a piece of someone’s past.

It was one of those rainy Saturday afternoons that just felt endless. The kind where the sky is stuck in a shade of dull gray and the air smells like wet pavement. The kind where nothing seems urgent except the desire to disappear for a little while. I had no plans, no destination. I just needed to be anywhere but home, alone with the swirl of thoughts I couldn't quite untangle.

That’s how I ended up in a tiny thrift shop I’d never noticed before. It was tucked between a laundromat and a nail salon, the kind of place that looks more like an afterthought than a business. The sign was half-faded, the windows foggy from condensation. I almost passed it by.

Inside, the place was dim and musty, and the air was thick with the scent of old paper, forgotten clothes, and worn-out furniture. There was a creak in the floorboards with every step I took. Something about that place felt suspended in time, like I’d stepped into someone else’s memory. It felt oddly comforting.

I wandered aimlessly, brushing my fingers along old winter coats and boots that had clearly seen a lot of winters. There were chipped teacups, tangled costume jewelry, outdated electronics, and shelves cluttered with knick-knacks nobody had claimed in years. And then, tucked away at the back of the store, I found a small wooden bookcase. It was a little crooked, and the books were jammed in haphazardly, as though they'd been placed there without much thought.

That’s where I found it—A Tree Grows in Brooklyn.

The cover was soft from use, corners bent, the spine cracked in the middle. The pages were yellowing, and it had that slightly sweet, musty smell that only old books carry. I picked it up, not because I was looking for that particular story, but because something about it felt right. Like it was meant to find its way into my hands.

As I flipped through it, something fell out—an envelope, aged and paper-thin, wedged neatly between the pages around Chapter 3.

At first, I assumed it was just a forgotten receipt or maybe a bookmark left behind. But then I noticed it was unsealed. No name. No address. No date on the outside. Just a simple, cream-colored envelope, the kind that had yellowed softly with time.

Curious, I opened it. Inside was a single folded sheet of lined paper, the handwriting small and careful.

I began to read.


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June 4, 1965
To whoever finds this,

If you’re reading this, I guess this book ended up somewhere new. That makes me happy and a little nervous, too. My name is Evelyn. I’m 19, and today I’m leaving home for the first time. I packed this book in my suitcase because I love it—and I guess I hoped it would comfort me somehow.

I don’t know what will happen next. My father thinks I’m wasting my time going to college. He says it’s not a place for girls. But I want something more than what’s expected of me. I don’t want to just be “someone’s wife.” I want to write. To think. To matter.

If you found this letter, maybe you’re facing something scary, too. Maybe you’re standing on the edge of a decision and wondering if you have the strength. I hope you do. I hope you know you’re not alone.

Keep going. Please keep going.

—Evelyn


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I read the letter once. Then again. And again. Each time, her words echoed a little louder in my mind, like ripples in still water.

I wasn’t just reading someone’s memory. I was holding something sacred—something real. A snapshot of courage. A declaration of hope. A bridge, built from one life to another, across decades of time.

There I stood, in a quiet thrift store on a rainy afternoon, holding a stranger’s letter in my hands—and yet I felt known. Evelyn didn’t know who would read her words, but somehow they found me at exactly the right moment. As if she had written it not just for someone, but for me.

At the time, I was wrestling with my own doubts. I had been thinking about quitting a writing class I’d signed up for, feeling like maybe it didn’t matter. Like maybe the world didn’t need another voice trying to be heard. Like maybe mine wasn’t worth listening to. But here, in Evelyn’s neat script, was a message that shook me awake: “I want to write. To think. To matter.”

I bought the book, of course. The cashier barely looked up as I paid in cash. I don’t even think they knew the treasure that was tucked inside.

Now, the book lives on my nightstand. The letter, still carefully folded, remains tucked between Chapter 3 and 4—right where I found it.

Sometimes, late at night, I take it out and read it again. I imagine Evelyn, a young woman with a suitcase full of dreams, writing those words at a tiny desk in 1965. I wonder what happened to her. Did she become a writer? Did she make it through college despite what her father said? Did she ever know that her letter reached someone?

I may never know. But what I do know is this: her words mattered.

And if her words mattered—so do mine. So do yours.

There’s something powerful about the way stories travel. The way they outlast us. The way they find their way into someone else’s hands long after we’ve written them. Like a whisper that travels through time, reminding us we’re not alone.

Evelyn’s letter changed something in me. Not in a dramatic, movie-ending kind of way—but in a quiet, lasting one. Like a seed planted deep, waiting to bloom.

So now, when I hesitate, when I doubt, when I wonder if I’m good enough or brave enough, I remember that letter.

I remember Evelyn.

And I keep going.

Please—you keep going, too.