I have always loved flea markets.
Most people see clutter when they walk through rows of old furniture, dusty books, and secondhand clothes. I see stories. Forgotten things waiting for someone to notice them again.
That Thursday afternoon, I stopped by a local flea market on my way home from work because the weather had suddenly turned cold. I had been meaning to buy a jacket anyway.
I wandered through the crowded aisles slowly, coffee in hand, until something caught my eye.
A brown leather jacket hung at the very end of a clothing rack.