My four-year-old son vanished in a crowded mall. Two hours later, a calm woman walked out of the chaos carrying him. Before leaving, she handed me a small hairpin and said, “You’ll need this one day.”
Weeks later, I found the same hairpin on my kitchen counter—even though I had locked it away. My son kept humming a strange tune the woman taught him, and every time he did, the hairpin shimmered unnaturally.
A jeweler said its tiny markings looked ancient. That night, my son woke from a nightmare and whispered, “She said this will protect us,” placing the pin in my hand.
A week later, a town-wide blackout hit. Everything went dark—except the hairpin, glowing softly on my bedside table like something alive.
I still don’t know who that woman was, but I keep the hairpin locked in a wooden box. Some nights it faintly glows, reminding me that whatever she left with us… is still watching over our family.
