Holding the fabric, memories rushed back: my grandmother by the window, humming softly as she stitched each square. The forest behind the deer felt impossibly still, as if watching. The larger deer nudged the smaller one, and together they turned and disappeared into the trees as quietly as they had arrived.

I stood there for a long moment, stunned, clutching that small piece of cloth. Later, I framed it and placed it by the entryway—not because it was perfect, but because of how it returned to me.The forest has a way of giving things back, sometimes when we least expect it. That day, it returned a memory—and a reminder that connection can arrive in the gentlest, most unexpected ways.