I still don’t know who she was or how she found my son that day in the mall, but I’ve stopped questioning the gift she placed in my hand. The hairpin now rests in a small wooden box beside my bed, and though I rarely touch it, I feel its presence—quiet, watchful, steadfast. Sometimes, when the world feels uncertain, I notice a faint shimmer from inside the box, like a reminder that we’re not facing everything alone. And each time it happens, I’m grateful for the strange kindness of the woman who returned my son—and left us with something far greater than a simple pin.