When Vaughn decides to volunteer at a retirement home to boost her college applications, she doesn’t expect to enjoy it so much. But what happens when an elderly woman claims to have known Vaughn since childhood? And what if she leaves her a huge… with a note?

The retirement home smells of lemon-scented cleaner and medication. It’s oddly comforting and far from the sterile scent of the hospital most people expect.

I’ve been here long enough to feel at home, maybe more than in the foster homes where I spent my childhood.

I was only supposed to stay here for a few months to volunteer and improve my college applications. Right after school, I planned to work for a few years to save enough money for college and get by on my own.

“I understand that you need to work for a while, Vaughn,” said Dorothy, the school’s counselor. “But don’t push college too far away. The longer you wait, the harder it will be to start.”

I agreed. I’d heard too many stories about people with big dreams who let life pass them by because they ran out of time.

I worked as a personal assistant for a well-known mom. It was a stressful job, but she paid me well, and I could leave work by 3 p.m. every day.

That’s how I ended up at the retirement home after those hours.

It was three years ago. Today, I’m 25, and I still work here most days of the week. And the strangest thing is, I don’t regret it.

I don’t regret it. With its creaky floors and echoing hallways, this place has become a refuge.

But last week, something happened that made me question almost everything I knew.

It was Tuesday, late afternoon, and I was doing my usual rounds. Everyone had eaten dinner early and retired to their rooms, ready to rest before the bingo night.

Room after room, I checked on the residents, adjusted pillows, offered smiles, listened to the same stories I’d heard a hundred times. Then, I passed by Mrs. Coleman’s door. I had seen her before, a lovely woman. She was calm, 90 years old, always sitting by the window with a faraway gaze, as if waiting for something.

Or someone.

I hadn’t planned on visiting Mrs. Coleman that day, mainly because she was in the part of the hall that wasn’t my responsibility. But as I passed by her door, she reached out and grabbed my arm with surprising strength.

“I know you!” she whispered, her eyes sharp.

At first, I assumed it was dementia. It’s not uncommon here. Residents often think I’m their granddaughter or a nurse from years ago.

I smiled, gently removing Mrs. Coleman’s hand from my arm as we shuffled to her chair.

“I’m sure I do, Mrs. Coleman,” I said, trying to keep my tone gentle. “My name is Vaughn, remember? I’ve been working here for a while. I’ve made ginger tea for you several times.”

She smiled.

“I know,” she said. “But that’s not all. I know you. You used to live next door to me. You were just a little girl back then. Five or six, maybe.”

I froze.

Next door? That’s impossible. I barely remembered the names of my foster families, let alone their neighbors.

Yet, something in her gaze caught my attention.

“Don’t you remember?” she asked, leaning forward in her chair. “You came every year for my birthday. You sang for me, my dear. You would sit with me and my grandson, Soren. I’ll never forget your name or your beautiful eyes.”

Suddenly, I felt dizzy.

I wanted to shake my head and tell her she was mistaken. But something stirred in my memory. A series of faint, blurry images in my mind. A small kitchen. The laughter of an elderly woman. The warmth of birthday candles. A chocolate cake. Mint candies on a coffee table.

I felt uneasy.

“I…” I began. “I don’t really remember, Mrs. Coleman.”

Her expression softened, as though she had expected that answer.

“You were so young,” she said quietly. “But I never forgot. You were the only one who came. Soren used to play with your siblings, and we invited them all. But you were the only one who came. Every year, it was just you.”

My throat tightened. The unpleasant sting of tears welled up in my eyes.

I knelt beside her, my hand still in hers. I felt things I couldn’t understand. Mrs. Coleman reminded me of a part of my life I had completely forgotten.

How could I have forgotten it? How could I have forgotten something so simple, yet so important?

“I felt so lonely,” she continued. “But then, you started coming, and Soren would ask his dad to drop him off more often. And before I knew it, the house was filled with your laughter when you two played outside.”

“I’m sorry,” I said. “I’m really sorry I forgot.”

Mrs. Coleman’s eyes filled with warmth as she looked into mine.

“Don’t be sorry,” she said softly, as though it was the most natural thing in the world. “You were just a child. And before I knew it, you were gone. I just assumed you had moved to another family. I asked your foster parents where you were, but they couldn’t give me any details.”

“I didn’t know you cared so much about me…” I said.

“Sweetheart, you were just a child. But you saved me, in a way that sometimes I don’t even understand.”

For a moment, I couldn’t speak. My whole life, I had felt like I was drifting through the world unnoticed. I went from family to family, changing rooms and beds as they became comfortable for me.

But here was this woman, this stranger, who remembered me.

Me.

At a time when I barely remembered myself. And somehow, I had mattered to her.

“Thank you,” I said. “For remembering me…”

She smiled gently.

“How could I not?” she asked. “I mean, I forgot for a while. But last night, I dreamt of you as a child. And then, I was sure. It was you.”

I felt a hundred times better when I left for home that evening. I arrived at my small apartment and made myself a bowl of noodles.

Everything was different now. Someone knew me. The me before my childhood.

The next morning, I was jolted awake by the buzzing of my phone on my nightstand. Groggy, I grabbed it and squinted at the screen. It was a notification from my bank.

700,000 dollars had been deposited into my account.

I sat up in bed, my heart racing. This must be a mistake.

Who deposits such an amount into a stranger’s account? My head was spinning as I stared at the screen, wondering who I should call.

The bank? The police? Someone else?

But before I could act, my phone rang again. It was the retirement home.

“Vaughn, can you come in earlier?” asked the head nurse. “Mrs. Coleman… she’s been taken to the hospital. She wasn’t feeling well last night, and she seems to have slipped into a coma. They’re closely monitoring her before she returns.”

I barely remember throwing on clothes or driving to work. When I arrived, my head was buzzing with a thousand thoughts.

Mrs. Coleman. The money. Is it a coincidence? What does all of this mean?

The staff handed me a small envelope when I arrived at the retirement home.

“Mrs. Coleman left this for you, V,” said Catherine, a nurse. “She told me to give it to you last night. I’m off now, my shift’s over.”

Inside was a note written in small, shaky handwriting.

“Use this for your dreams, my dear. You deserve it.”

It was from her. Mrs. Coleman.

I stood there, holding the note, feeling the weight of her words. She had given me that money. Somehow, she had found a way to make my dreams come true. I could now go to college. I could become someone. Someone.

It took me a few days to decide what to do. In the end, I didn’t enroll in college. I went to the hospital to see Mrs. Coleman, and I was glad I did.

No one else visited her. She was still in a coma, unaware of who was around her. And on the fifth day of her stay, she passed away in the middle of the night.

In the end, I didn’t enroll in college. Instead, I went to the retirement home office and handed them a check for $50,000.

“Use it, Miranda,” I said to the manager. “Fix the leaking roof in the dining hall. Renovate the rooms. Buy a new TV. Let’s improve life here.”

I donated most of the money to charities for orphans.

And I kept a good portion to afford nursing school in the evenings. When I graduated, I wanted to work properly at the retirement home. Full-time.

Mrs. Coleman seemed to know me better than I knew myself.

A few days later, as I stood in front of her room, watching the sunlight filter through the window, I realized something.

Maybe it had been my dream all along.

What would you have done?