The woman peered into the bag and was struck with horror at what lay inside.
A boy gazed out the window, tugging at his grandmothers sleeve.
“Nana, when are we going outside?”
“Not today, love. Its freezing,” the woman replied. “And Ive got too much knitting to finish.”
Margaret Whitmore worked from home, crafting hats and scarves to order. She had a set to completea hat, mittens, and a scarfbut her grandson was relentless.
“Please, Nana? Just a little walk?”
She sighed. “Fine, but only for a bit. Its bitter out there.”
The streets were deserted, everyone tucked away from the cold. The boy darted about while Margaret shivered, her fingers stiff.
“Thats enough, Oliver. Well catch our death.”
But the boy was already vanishing into the playground maze, falling silent. She called his name, uneasy, until his voice echoed back.
“Nana! Theres a doll here. Can we take it?”
Stepping into the maze, she saw a handbag. A faint whimper rose from within. Ice shot through her veins. She unzipped ita tiny baby, wrapped in a thin blanket, lips blue with cold. Snatching the child to her chest, she dialled emergency services with trembling hands.
Paramedics and police arrived swiftly. The baby was rushed to hospital while Margaret and Oliver gave statements.
“Your grandson did well,” an officer said. “Quick thinking.”
Margarets voice wavered. “Who could abandon their own flesh and blood?”
The officer shrugged. “Youd be surprised what people do. Weve seen it all.”
She begged for updates. The baby had mild hypothermia but would recover. “Another hour, though, and…” The officer trailed off. They were sent home, Margaret too shaken to knit.
The next morning, she rang the hospital.
“Why do you want to know?” the receptionist asked sharply.
“We found her. I just I need to know shes alright.”
“Oh! Youre the ones who saved her? Shes a little girldoing well, thanks to you.”
Margarets voice softened. “Could we visit? Bring anything?”
Against protocol, they were allowed. She bought nappies and formula, and tucked a hand-knitted scarfsoft grey wool with lacework edgesinto her bag. Shed made it on impulse, never knowing why until now.
The baby was tiny, perfect. Tears spilled as Margaret draped the scarf over her, whispering a blessing.
Years passed. Calls confirmed the girlSophiehad been adopted after her mothers rights were stripped. A childless couple had taken her in, smitten at first sight.
Eighteen winters later, Margaret, though frail, bustled in her kitchen, baking Olivers favourite pie. Hed been cryptic about his visit, promising a surprise.
The door creaked open. Oliver entered with a young woman.
“Nana, meet Sophie. Were getting married. Feels like Ive known her forever.”
Margaret beamed. “Wonderful! Come in, both of you.”
Sophie unwound her scarf, and Margaret froze.
“That pattern its lovely.”
“Oh, this?” Sophie smiled. “Ive had it as long as I can remember. I hardly wear ittoo precious.”
Margaret knew. The very scarf shed knitted, given for luck. Fate had woven their threads long agoOliver saving the girl whod one day hold his heart. Some bonds, it seemed, were written in the stars.
