Long ago, in a quiet English village, a woman peered into a bag and was struck with horror at what lay inside.
A young boy gazed out the window, tugging at his grandmothers sleeve. “Gran, when can we go outside?” he pleaded.
“Not today, loveits far too chilly,” Margaret Whitmore replied. “Besides, Ive knitting to finish.” She worked from home, crafting hats and scarves to sell, and todays ordera matching setcouldnt wait.
But the boy was persistent. “Please, Gran? Just for a bit!”
Finally, she relented. “Oh, very well. A short walk, mind youI cant spare more time.”
Outside, the village square stood deserted; everyone had taken shelter from the bitter cold. The boy bounded ahead, full of energy, while Margaret shivered, her breath forming soft clouds in the air. “Thats enough, Oliver. Time to go home before we catch our death.”
Yet the boy darted off, vanishing into the maze of a wooden playground. When he didnt answer her calls, Margarets heart clenched. Then, from the shadows, his voice echoed: “Gran, looktheres a doll here! Can we take it?”
Stepping closer, she saw a bagand from within, a faint whimper. A wave of dread washed over her. Inside, swaddled in a thin cloth, lay a tiny infant, blue-lipped from the cold. Margaret clutched the child to her chest, summoning help with trembling fingers.
Soon, paramedics and constables arrived. The baby was rushed to hospital, while Margaret and Oliver gave their account.
“A fine lad youve raised,” an officer remarked. “Sharp-eyed, that one.”
Margaret shook her head, sickened. “How could anyone abandon their own flesh and blood?”
The officer shrugged. “Seen worse, maam. Some leave em in bins, others on doorsteps. Nought surprises us anymore.”
Before leaving, Margaret begged for news of the child. The officer later confirmed the baby would recoverthough another hour mightve been fatal.
At home, Margaret set aside her knitting, too shaken to work. The next morning, she rang the hospital.
“Why dyou ask after the child?” came the wary reply.
“Im no onejust the woman who found her.”
Recognition softened the nurses tone. “Ah, the little girls saviours! Shes thriving, thanks to you.”
“May I visit? Bring nappies or formula?”
Against protocol, an exception was made. The following day, Margaret and Oliver arrived with supplies. The infantso small, so perfectstirred tears in Margarets eyes. From her bag, she drew a soft grey scarf, edged with intricate patterns, knitted not for sale but on impulse. “For luck,” she whispered, draping it over the sleeping child.
In time, they learned the girl had been named Sophia. Her mother, unfit, was stripped of rights, and a childless couple adopted her, smitten at first sight.
Years slipped by. Eighteen, to be precise.
Now elderly but spry, Margaret baked Olivers favourite pie, humming as she worked. Hed promised a surprise, his voice alight with mystery.
The door creaked open. Oliver entered, a young woman at his side. “Gran, meet Sophiamy fiancée. Feels like Ive known her forever.”
Margaret beamed. “What wonderful news! Welcome, dear. Come in, dont linger theresuppers waiting.”
As the girl unwound her scarf, Margaret froze. The patternthose very stitches
“Such a unique design,” Margaret murmured.
Sophia smiled. “Its been with me since I was small. I seldom wear it, but Id never part with it.”
Margaret knew then. The scarf shed knitted for luck, for warmth, had found its way backas had the child. Oliver, it seemed, had saved his own future wife long before theyd met. Some bonds, it appeared, were written in the stars.
