Then I forgot about it.

A year later, a package arrived.

Inside were three little dresses I remembered packing—softened by wear, folded with care. On top lay a note, written in blocky, shaky handwriting:

“You helped me when I had no one. I wanted to return what I could.”

Beneath the dresses was a tiny crocheted duck. Yellow. Slightly lopsided.

I hadn’t told anyone about the duck. It had slipped into the box while I was cleaning—my grandmother’s, from when I was little. I thought it was gone forever. Seeing it again knocked the breath out of me.

The note continued:

“I’ve been through hell this year. I wouldn’t have made it without the kindness of a stranger. This duck sat on my daughter’s nightstand. She said it kept the bad dreams away. She’s better now, and I think it’s time it comes home.”

I sat on the kitchen floor, letter trembling in my hands, and cried—quiet, ugly tears that cracked something open inside me.

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