They came out of nowhere—just wandered up from the treeline while I was tossing hay near the fence. No fear, no hesitation. Like they’d been here before. The bigger one kept a steady, protective pace, watching every movement I made with quiet confidence, as if ensuring the little one felt safe enough to approach. But the small deer—wide-eyed, curious—kept tilting its head at me, blinking slowly, almost thoughtfully. I laughed under my breath, pulled out my phone, and snapped a picture. “Today I got some guests,” I wrote when I posted it online, never imagining the moment was about to shift into something far more meaningful
Right after I lowered my phone, the little deer stepped closer than I expected—so close that I could hear the soft crunch of leaves under its hooves. It paused at the fence, studying me with an expression that felt strangely intentional. Then, gently, it opened its mouth and dropped something onto the grass. At first, I assumed it was a rock or a bundle of dirt caught in its fur. But when I crouched down and brushed the leaves aside, I realized it was a small, worn piece of fabric. A corner of embroidery peeked out, faded but unmistakable. It was part of the quilt I had lost during last autumn’s storm—the one my grandmother had sewn by hand many years ago. I had searched the property for days, but the wind had taken it further than I ever thought possible.
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