It wasn’t just a blanket. I had knitted it myself, back when my granddaughter had just been born. Every stitch — with a prayer, with love, with hope. After the death of my husband, and then my only son, that blanket became one of the few living reminders of the past. And now it was being thrown away? Just like that?

I brought it home. My hands were trembling. I spread the blanket out on the bed, carefully smoothing the fabric, and suddenly felt something hard right in the center. A distinct rectangular lump, far too regular to be accidental.

My heart started pounding. I turned the blanket over and saw an almost invisible seam — perfectly straight, stitched with thread exactly matching the color of the fabric. Someone had opened the blanket, placed something inside, and sewn it back up so neatly that no eye would have caught it.