It wasn’t about the flag.
It was about what it meant to me. I’d hung it out front the day I moved in—not to make a statement, just to feel a little more like home. New street, new neighbors, new everything. I was the outsider. Everyone knew it.
It wasn’t even a big flag—just a modest one, clipped to the post by the porch. I didn’t expect anyone to notice it, let alone take it. But there I was, Tuesday morning, standing barefoot on the porch in my boxers, coffee in one hand… staring at the empty post.
And right below it on the welcome mat—folded small, no name on it—was a crisp $20 bill and a sticky note that read:
“Nothing personal. Hope this covers it.”
No signature. No explanation.
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