The pocket watch (New York City, 1854)

Maggie had been selling apples in the same spot for weeks, just outside a banker’s office, where men in heavy coats and silk hats never noticed her. She wasn’t begging, at least not exactly. She had apples, and apples had value.

But that day, a man did notice. Not because of her apples, but because she had something in her hand. A gold pocket watch.

She had just picked it up from the sidewalk, dropped in the rush of morning business. A fine thing too. Engraved, heavy, worth more than she’d make in months. She could feel the weight of it pressing into her palm, as if it already belonged to her.

But then she saw him. A man pacing near the steps, checking his pockets, his face tight with panic.

Maggie walked up to him, held out the watch. “You dropped this,” she said, and his face changed instantly. Shock, then relief, then something like gratitude. He took the watch, nodding. “You’re honest,” he said. “That’s rare.”

He handed her a coin. Not a penny, not a nickel, but a silver dollar. Enough to feed her family for a week.

She watched him go, the weight in her hand different now. Lighter.