I SAW SARAH PUT THAT ENVELOPE IN MR. HENDERSON’S TRASH CAN
I was just getting coffee when I saw Sarah slip something shiny into Mr. Henderson’s office trash. I froze, my hand shaking slightly on the handle. The quiet hum of the office felt deafening in that moment. Why would Sarah do that? She was always so meticulously careful.
My stomach twisted. I waited until she was completely gone, her footsteps fading down the hall. That cold, heavy feeling started spreading through me; curiosity was winning over my caution. I had to know what was going on.
I crept to the bin, glancing around frantically. It was half-full of papers, but I saw the corner of something metallic glinting beneath a discarded report. My heart hammered against my ribs. I reached in, pulling out a small, surprisingly heavy metal box.
It wasn’t an envelope at all. It was locked, a solid block, but a tiny, precisely folded note was taped to the bottom. My name was written on it in what looked like frantic, shaky handwriting. The note itself just contained two alarming words: “Don’t open this here. Run.”
Then I heard the elevator door ding right behind me, and the floor supervisor stepped out.
👇 Full story continued in the comments…I spun around, the box clutched behind my back. The floor supervisor, a stern woman named Ms. Davies, narrowed her eyes. “Everything alright, [Your Name]?” she asked, her gaze lingering on the trash bin.
My mind raced. “Oh! Yes, Ms. Davies. Just, uh, disposing of some old files. Messy job.” I forced a shaky smile and quickly tucked the box inside my jacket, pretending to brush off my clothes. My heart was a drum solo against my ribs.
She didn’t look entirely convinced but seemed hesitant to make a scene. “Right. Well, see that you’re back at your desk promptly. We have deadlines.” She gave me one last scrutinizing look before turning and walking towards her office.
As soon as she was out of sight, I bolted for the nearest exit stairwell. The air inside was stale and cool, a stark contrast to the humid tension of the office floor. I sank onto a step, pulling out the crumpled note and the heavy box. My hands trembled as I unfolded the note again. “Don’t open this here. Run.” Sarah’s frantic handwriting swam before my eyes. What in the world had she gotten into? And why me?
I examined the box. It was a solid metal rectangle, maybe six inches long, four wide, and two deep. There was a small, intricate lock. My fingers traced the cold metal. How was I supposed to open this? Did the note hold a clue? I looked at it again. Just the two words and my name.
Wait. I turned the note over. On the back, almost invisible, was a faint, smudged sequence of numbers and letters: `HNDRSN.KEY.07`. HNDRSN… Henderson? Was that the key? A password or combination?
I didn’t have tools to force it open, and trying to guess a combination here felt too risky. “Run,” the note said. It wasn’t just about opening the box, it was about leaving. Leaving the office, leaving this building. Something dangerous was happening, and Sarah wanted me out of the line of fire, or perhaps, she needed me to deliver this box to safety.
I stood up, the weight of the box in my hand feeling like a lead anchor. I couldn’t stay here. I couldn’t open it here. I had to get somewhere safe, somewhere I could figure out what this was and why Sarah had risked everything to get it to me. With a deep breath, I pushed open the stairwell door leading to the ground floor, the metallic box hidden beneath my jacket, the frantic note clutched tight in my other hand. I ran.