The pattern became her private ritual. She bought yarn only on sale, worked by lamplight, and made pieces meant to last. Sweaters, scarves, hats, mittens, tiny blankets—practical things with quiet love hidden in every seam. Six years slipped by on that rhythm, her days threaded together by careful budgeting and steady hands.
Sometimes, as she walked away from the orphanage, she’d hear children laughing inside. The sound would hit her like sunlight through clouds. It made the sore fingers worth it. It made the quiet in her flat feel less pointless.
Then, one chilly Tuesday in late October, something changed.
Margaux had just finished her coffee and was sketching out a new pattern for winter hats when she heard a soft thud outside her front door. No one visited. No packages came this early. The sound made her stomach tighten.
She opened the door and froze.
Two large boxes sat neatly on her doormat. Her name was written on both in clean, careful handwriting. There was no return address. No delivery truck. No footsteps in the hall. Continue reading…
