Michael Jordan visits a forgotten woman in a nursing home — and learns she once saved his life
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The Forgotten Letter
The envelope was plain, unassuming, and yellowed with age. It sat on the corner of Michael Jordan’s desk, looking as though it had traveled through decades to find him. The paper was brittle, the edges frayed, and the ink on the front was faded. The only thing legible was his name, written in a shaky script: Michael Jordan.
Michael stared at it for a long moment, his fingers hovering just above the surface. He didn’t recognize the handwriting, and there was no return address. It had arrived at his Highland Park mansion without warning, slipped into his mailbox without fanfare. None of the security personnel had seen who delivered it, and the cameras captured nothing. It was as though the letter had materialized out of thin air, carrying with it a fragment of the past he had long forgotten.
He finally picked it up, his hands trembling slightly as he turned it over. The flap was sealed with a wax stamp, an old-fashioned touch he hadn’t seen outside of movies or history books. The symbol pressed into the wax was unfamiliar: a simple circle with an intricate pattern of lines inside. It looked like a maze.
Curiosity outweighed caution. Michael grabbed a letter opener and carefully sliced through the seal. Inside was a single sheet of paper, folded neatly in thirds. The handwriting on the page was the same shaky script as the envelope, and the words were sparse:
“You don’t remember her, but she never forgot you. There’s something you need to see. Meet me at Sunset Manor. Room 308. Midnight. Come alone.”
Michael’s breath caught in his throat. Sunset Manor. He knew the name. It was an asylum on the South Side of Chicago, not far from where he had grown up. The very place he had striven to forget once fame elevated him to the heavens. A chill ran down his spine as he read the letter again, the words sinking deeper into his mind. Who was “her”? And why had she been waiting for him?
By the time the sun dipped below the horizon, Michael had made up his mind. Some journeys must be undertaken alone. He grabbed his car keys, slipped on a heavy coat, and drove through the streets of Chicago, his mind racing with questions. The city lights blurred past him as he left the comfort of his mansion behind, heading toward the forgotten corners of his childhood.
When he reached Sunset Manor, the building loomed before him like a shadow from another time. It was worse than he had imagined—peeling paint on the walls, cracked flooring, and an air of neglect that turned his stomach. The smell of disinfectant barely masked the underlying stench of decay.
Michael strode through the dimly lit corridors, each step echoing like a war drum. The receptionist, a weary middle-aged woman, nearly fainted upon seeing him.
“Mr. Jordan? What are you doing here?” she stammered.
“I’m here to visit someone,” Michael said, his voice steady but low. “Room 308.”
The receptionist’s face paled. “Mrs. Mabel? She… she hasn’t had visitors in years. In fact, she’s never had any.”
Michael felt a pang in his chest. He ascended the creaking stairs, each step weighing him down like lead. The third-floor corridor was cloaked in near darkness, the burnt-out bulbs casting sinister shadows on the walls. Room 308 waited at the end of the hall, its door slightly ajar.
He took a deep breath and knocked.
“Come in,” a faint voice whispered.
The door creaked open slowly, and Michael froze. An elderly black woman, approximately 90 years old, sat in a wheelchair gazing out the window. She was terribly thin, her bones seeming poised to pierce her wrinkled skin. But her eyes—her eyes gleamed with a disquieting lucidity. She turned slowly, and upon seeing Michael, she betrayed no surprise, only a soft smile, as if she had been anticipating his arrival for decades.
“Michael,” she whispered. “You’ve grown so much.”
Michael’s legs nearly gave way. He approached slowly, every fiber of his being recognizing something familiar in that time-ravaged face.
“How do you… how do you know me?” he asked, his voice trembling.
“It was a long time ago,” she murmured, disregarding his question. “Since you first appeared on television, I knew you would return.”
Michael knelt beside the wheelchair, his eyes welling up with an inexplicable flood of emotion. He held her hand, cold and frail as wet paper. “Who are you?”
“I am Mabel Jennings,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper. “And 50 years ago, I pulled you from the flames.”
Michael’s world shattered. Memories surged through his mind like boiling water—the scent of smoke, the unbearable heat, strong arms carrying him away from death. But before he could process it all, heavy footsteps echoed in the corridor. Someone was approaching, and by the sound of the strides, that person was not pleased.
“What are you doing here?” a voice sliced through the air like a razor.
Michael turned to find a black man, approximately 40 years old, standing in the doorway. He was tall, with well-defined muscles beneath his employee uniform and eyes that burned with rage and mistrust.
“Forgive me,” Michael began, rising to his feet. “I’m Michael Jordan, and—”
“I know who you are,” the man interrupted, entering the room with measured steps. “I’m Curtis Jennings. I’ve worked here for 15 years, and she’s my grandmother.”
Michael felt his blood run cold. Curtis approached the wheelchair and placed a protective hand on Mabel’s shoulder.
“Grandma, are you all right? Did he bother you?”
“Curtis, dear,” Mabel said softly, “this is Michael. The boy from the fire.”
Curtis froze, his eyes widening as they darted between Michael and Mabel. Slowly, his expression of anger transformed into something far more complex—surprise, recognition, and perhaps hope.
“You’re that boy,” Curtis whispered. “The one from the 1971 fire.”
“I… I believe so,” Michael stammered. “But I don’t recall everything. Only fragments.”
Curtis walked to an old cabinet and opened a stuck drawer. His hands trembled as he delved for something deep inside. Finally, he found what he was looking for—a yellowed envelope sealed with aged adhesive tape.
“She kept this for 50 years,” Curtis said, handing the envelope to Michael. “She always said you would come back to claim it one day.”
Michael grasped the envelope with trembling hands. It was heavy, unusually weighty, as though it carried the weight of decades. Inside lay a journal bound in brown leather, yellowed by time, its pages filled with meticulous script. The first entry was dated June 15, 1971:
“Today, I saved a life. An eight-year-old boy, Michael Jeffrey Jordan. He will not remember me, but I will never forget him.”
Michael’s hands shook as he turned the pages. The journal chronicled every significant milestone of his life—his high school career, his college days, the NBA. Mabel had followed his journey from afar, never missing a game, never missing a moment.
“She never missed a single one of your games on television,” Curtis said, tears streaming down his cheeks. “Not a single one. She used to say you were the son she never had.”
Michael resumed reading, but the later entries were different. Ominous. One in particular caught his attention:
“I tried to tell the truth about this place, about what they do to us. But no one believes a crazy old black woman. If anything happens to me, find Walter Cross. He knows everything.”
Michael looked up, his blood running cold. “Curtis, who is Walter Cross?”
Curtis’s face drained of color. He glanced nervously at the door, then back at Michael. “Don’t say that name here,” he whispered. “Not out loud.”
“Why? Who is he?”
Curtis hesitated, his voice dropping to a whisper. “He’s the administrator of this asylum. And if you keep digging, you won’t leave this place alive.”
