My four-year-old son disappeared in a crowded mall. The police searched everywhere, but he was nowhere to be found.
Two agonizing hours later, a woman appeared carrying him in her arms.
I burst into tears. She smiled gently, pressed a hairpin into my hand, and whispered,
“You’ll need this someday.” I tucked it away, not thinking much of it.
Three weeks later, my stomach dropped. That same hairpin was lying on my kitchen counter—despite the fact that I had locked it inside a drawer the night before.
I tried to blame stress or memory lapses, but something about the pin felt… intentional.
