The next day, curiosity wrestled with caution, and curiosity won. I inspected the hairpin closely, expecting to find a logo or maker’s mark, but instead discovered tiny etched symbols running along its side—patterns too intricate for something so small. When I showed it to a local jeweler, he hesitated, then admitted he’d never seen anything like it. “It’s old,” he said, “older than it should be.” That night, when my son woke crying from a dream, he clutched the pin in my hand and said, “She told me it will keep us safe.” His certainty was unsettling. He spoke of the woman as if she were still watching us, guiding us, protecting us from something he couldn’t explain. I held him until he fell asleep, wondering what kind of stranger would give a child a charm with such intention behind it.

A week later, our town experienced a sudden blackout that swept through every neighborhood. My house fell into complete darkness—except for one faint glimmer. The hairpin on my bedside table emitted a soft, warm glow. My son wandered into my room, not frightened in the least, as if he had been expecting this. When I picked up the pin, the glow intensified, illuminating the room just enough for us to see each other clearly. The power returned minutes later, but the experience left me with a realization: whatever this object was, it wasn’t decorative. That woman had known something was coming long before it arrived. And somehow, she had chosen to trust us with it.