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I kept replaying every detail: the lilac scent that felt too personal, the hidden crescent tucked away like a secret, the desperate instruction on that folded note. The initials on the insert turned the bag from a bargain into evidence, and me into an unwilling witness. I thought about calling the police, about explaining how a stranger’s life had brushed against mine through soft leather and a forgotten pocket. But the message—“Bring the other one”—echoed like a warning that wasn’t meant for me.