Just gone. No sound, no movement. Like they’d vanished into the woods without a trace.
I picked up the key, my heart pounding. It was cold. Heavier than it looked. The red cloth was frayed at the edges, like it had been handled a lot.
That night, I couldn’t sleep. I kept thinking about the little deer’s eyes. The way it looked at me.
Like it knew me.
Or was looking for me.
The next morning, I searched the woods where they came from. I didn’t expect to find anything. But after an hour, I spotted something — half-buried beneath moss and leaves.
A small, rusted-out lockbox.
My hands were shaking as I pulled the key from my pocket.
It fit.
The key turned with a grinding click that echoed louder than it should have in the silence of the woods.
I hesitated.
What could possibly be inside a box delivered by deer?
