It was a cold Saturday morning, around 8 a.m. I was on my way to work when I sat down on the bus and glanced at the empty seats across from me.

At first, they looked like any other ordinary empty seats, upholstered in blue velvet. But something felt off about two of them, adjacent to each other. I leaned forward and noticed something wedged in the gap between the chairs. For a second, chills ran through my body. I thought it was a rat, curled up between the seats, trying to keep itself warm.

I reached in anyway.

Instead of fur, I pulled out a navy-blue, dilapidated wallet.

With the wallet in my hand, I looked around, hoping to find the owner before he could accuse me of theft, so I could shove it back into his hands. But no one looked like they had lost anything. Everyone was half asleep, their hands tucked between their legs for warmth. It was far too cold to stand up and announce that I had found a wallet, so I followed suit and tucked my hands between my legs.

When I arrived at work, I decided I would try to return the wallet myself.

I searched through it for clues. Inside were photos of children, several debit cards, an ID card, a metro card, a SIM card, and some cash. As I emptied it, I felt something small and round at the bottom, about half an inch in size. I used my thumb and index finger to dig around. After wiggling for a moment, I finally grabbed it and pulled it out.

Instant regret.

I felt disgusted, like my fingers had been violated. What kind of person carries a broken tooth in their wallet? Still, I shoved it back inside, just in case I needed it later for a DNA test or something.

I went back to inspecting the rest of the contents. I considered putting the SIM card into my phone to look through the contacts and maybe find someone I could call. But I decided against it.

First, I didn’t want to put something foreign inside my phone. My phone has been in a monogamous relationship with my SIM card. Second, I didn’t know this person. What if he was wanted for something and I somehow found myself on the hook? No thank you.

That left me with two options: go to his bank and ask them to contact him, or do the sensible thing and take the wallet to the police.

Naturally, I chose the bank.

The man had debit cards from four different banks. I closed my eyes and picked one. Let’s call it XYZ Bank. I searched for the nearest branch and decided to walk in confidently and explain everything. In my mind, this was an ingenious plan.

When I arrived, I told my story to the receptionist. She listened carefully — three times — and then called her boss, to whom I explained everything once more. He asked to see the debit card, and after one look, informed me that I was in the wrong bank.

Apparently, there were two banks in the same building. Identical glass fronts, white frames, green logos, green furniture. I had simply walked through the wrong door.

I turned back, double-checked the sign this time, and entered.

Once again, I explained how I found the wallet and what I wanted them to do. This time, they were not impressed at all. In fact, as soon as they heard where I found it, they just panicked. The teller rose halfway out of his chair, frozen mid-stand, his butt hanging in the air, and with a pale face, he told me to take the wallet to the police immediately.

“What’s so dangerous about it?” I wondered.

Honestly, I don’t trust the police. This wallet had family photos, important documents, and cash. What if they spent the money and tossed the rest? I just wanted to make sure it got back to its owner.

Then it hit me.

Social media.

“What if I post about it?” I thought. “Someone might recognize him.”

I got on it immediately.

After two days of this brilliant idea, there was no response.

Honestly, what is the point of social media if you can’t locate a single person? I know I only have two followers, but I still expected more.

What if there was a real emergency?

Who knows — maybe one day I’ll find a baby on the bus, and suddenly I’ll be responsible for reuniting her with her parents.

At this rate, I don’t like my chances.