The Deer Brought Me a Key
They came out of nowhere while I was tossing hay by the fence. No fear. No hesitation. Like they knew exactly where they were.
The larger one stood watch. The smaller one kept tilting its head at me, blinking slowly, almost knowingly. I laughed, snapped a photo, even posted it: “Today I got some guests.”
Right after, the little one stepped forward.
And dropped something.
I thought it was a rock. It wasn’t.
It was a rusted key, a strip of red cloth tied to it.
I looked up.
The deer were gone.
That night I couldn’t sleep. The animal’s eyes stayed with me. The next morning, I searched the woods.
An hour in, I found a small lockbox buried under moss.
The key fit.
Inside were letters, tied with twine. The top one read: “To the one who listens.”
It said the forest remembers kindness. That the deer were guardians. That something waited beneath a spiral-marked stone — and I must not open it until the full moon.
I found the stone.
I dug.
Another box lay beneath it, carved from rock, veins in it glinting like trapped moonlight. It hummed under my fingers.
I didn’t open it.
Now I wait.
The deer haven’t come back, but every night the woods feel aware.
Like something chose me.
And whatever is buried here… isn’t done yet.
