or memory lapses, but something about the pin felt… intentional.
My son wandered in, humming a strange melody he claimed the “nice lady” taught him.
I couldn’t shake the feeling that the woman hadn’t simply rescued my son—she had left something behind with purpose.
The next day, curiosity got the better of me.
I examined the hairpin closely and found delicate symbols etched along its side—too elaborate for such a tiny object.
A jeweler I consulted frowned, admitting he’d never seen anything like it. “It’s old,” he murmured, “much older than it should be.”
That night, my son woke terrified from a dream. As I held him, he placed the pin in my hand and whispered, “She said it will protect us.”
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