Somewhere Out There

Today, in a rare early return to the city, I visited the subway lost and found, a small room behind a door marked "Lost Property Unit" on the lower level of a subway station.
 
Behind that mysterious door, in that tiny room (that, I'm sure, leads to a much larger room if you work there), there are four, yes four, computers on which visitors to Lost Property fill out a form describing the property they've lost on a train or bus. For me, it was my cell phone, a more than five year old flip jobby that no one could possibly want, full of pictures of my kids that I'd really like to have back.
 
So, despite the fact that I figure my phone has evaporated into the New York City air, I needed to leave no stone unturned. So, "Lost Property Unit" it was.
 
During the time I was there, I saw a woman get back a wallet complete with the seven dollars and two cents inside. I saw a woman who left her tablet on a bus come in because the Lost Property folks had emailed her and every contact on the tablet to say they'd found it. And I saw a man who'd lost a briefcase full of papers leave empty-handed. As for me, I left empty-handed as well (except for the claim form I was told I could use to follow up in a few days, which perhaps I'll do).
 
The point is, behind this door, little miracles must happen every day. Perhaps not for me, but for hundreds of other people who also might assume their stuff has evaporated, then walk out of that room having it back.
 
I don't think I'll end up getting my phone back--I've resigned myself to reconstructing both my contacts and my memory of the mediocre quality (but highly sentimental) photos I took over more than five years. I was just glad to see today that for some people, what is lost actually can be found.