Underneath it, folded so small I almost missed it, lay a strip of paper. I pulled it out with trembling hands.

It wasn’t a receipt.

It wasn’t a price tag.

It was a note.

Written in faded blue pen: “If you find this, please help. My name is Lily.”

My skin went cold.

Stan watched me, confused, his sock half-slipped off, tiny toes curled against the dusty floor. I tried to keep my voice steady.

“It’s okay, sweetheart. Mommy’s just checking.”

But my heart was hammering so loud I could barely breathe. I checked the other shoe, forcing up the insole, and there—another note, thicker this time, folded into what looked like a tiny packet. I opened it slowly, terrified of what I’d see.

Inside were four more slips of paper, each covered in shaky handwriting, as if written by a child—or by someone who didn’t have time.

“He won’t let me out.”

“I am not allowed to play outside.”

“Please help me.”

And on the last one, smeared as if by tears:

“Please find my mom.”

That’s when I realized—these weren’t just baby shoes. They belonged to a child… a child who might still be alive, somewhere, trapped.

My first instinct was to call the police, but then I looked around our apartment—peeling wallpaper, an unplugged space heater, my mom coughing from the next room—and I hesitated. People like me don’t get taken seriously. I’d be dismissed, told it was a prank, told to “bring them in so we can log the evidence,” and then the shoes would sit in some dusty storage box while the real child kept begging for help.

I needed to know more.

I checked the shoes again, this time more thoroughly, fingers searching every seam, every stitch. That’s when I felt it—a rigid bump under the heel. I pried it open with a butter knife until something metallic clinked onto the table.

A tiny charm. Silver. In the shape of a house key.

But not just any key.

It had a number etched into it: 717.

I stared at it like it was radioactive.

“What is it?” Stan asked.

“A key,” I whispered, feeling my mouth go dry.

“To where?”

“I… don’t know yet.”

That night, after putting Stan to bed and helping my mom drink her meds, I sat at our wobbly kitchen table with the charm key in one hand and the notes in the other. The numbers—717—kept burning into my eyes. A room number? A mailbox? An apartment?

I barely slept.

In the morning, I took Stan to daycare, kissed his cheek, and walked straight to the flea market vendor. My heart weighed ten tons the whole way.

The woman who sold me the shoes was there again, arranging old picture frames on a blanket. She looked up and smiled, until she saw my face.

“What’s wrong?” she asked.

“I need to know where you got these shoes.”

Her hands froze.

“Why?” she asked sharply.

I pulled the notes from my coat pocket. Her face drained of color, lips trembling.

“Oh God,” she whispered, sinking onto a folding chair. “Oh God…”

“Please,” I begged. “Tell me.”

She swallowed hard. “A man dropped off a box of kids’ clothes last month. Said he was clearing out… leftovers. Paid me ten dollars to take them all. Didn’t want a receipt. Didn’t even give me his name.”

My pulse spiked. “What did he look like?”

She squeezed her eyes shut. “Tall. Grey sweatshirt. Ball cap. Nothing else I remember. I’m sorry, honey. I’m so sorry.”

I almost walked away, but she grabbed my wrist with surprising strength.

“Those weren’t the only shoes,” she whispered. “There were dresses. Pajamas. Everything brand new. Like someone was buying clothes for a child who wasn’t allowed to leave the house.”

I felt sick. The parking lot spun around me.

“Do you still have the box?” I managed to ask.

She nodded weakly. “In my van.”

I followed her, legs shaking. Inside the van, under piles of mismatched vintage junk, was a cardboard box marked with a black marker: “Size 3T-4T.”

My son’s exact size.

I opened it. More clothes. Small, neat, barely worn. And then—a tiny pink sweater with a name tag sewn into the collar.

“LILY.”

My vision blurred. For a moment I forgot how to breathe.

“I thought about donating them,” the woman said behind me. “But something felt wrong. I just… didn’t want to touch the box.”

I took the sweater. And the box. And I left without another word.

At home, I laid everything out on the floor. Every item smelled faintly of bleach and something else—something metallic and stale, like a basement or garage. On the inside of the sweater pocket, my fingertips brushed against something crinkled. Another note.

“717 HWY. Back shed. Please.”

No city. No state. Just that.

I stared at it for a long time. Then I did something reckless and absolutely stupid: I opened my laptop and typed “717 HWY” into Google Maps.

Pages of results popped up across multiple states. Highway 717 in Pennsylvania. Route 717 in Nevada. County Road 717 in Arkansas. Dozens of possibilities.

But then one listing made my breath hitch.