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.
The moment felt almost unreal. How had this little deer found it? Why bring it back—here, to me? The forest stretched behind them, quiet and still, as if holding its breath. I lifted the fabric gently, brushing off the dirt, suddenly overwhelmed by memories of my grandmother sitting by the window, humming softly while stitching each square with care. The big deer gave a slow nod—at least that’s what it looked like—and nudged the younger one, guiding it back toward the treeline. They moved together with unspoken understanding, disappearing into the woods as silently as they had arrived. I stood frozen for several seconds, holding the tiny fragment of cloth that carried more emotional weight than anything I had expected to find that morning.
