Narrator: Harriet C. | Lincolnshire, England
There was red wool tied round a gate on my walking route. Just a bit of knitting yarn. Each morning it had another knot in it.
I counted because I was on maternity leave and small, pointless things had become interesting. On the seventh morning I untied it. I remember feeling pleased with myself for solving somebody else’s silly mystery.
The sheep in the field all looked towards the far hedge. They had been eating a moment before. Every head turned at once.
A woman was standing there with her back to me. She wore a thin dress in weather cold enough that I’d put gloves on the baby. Something red hung from her left hand.
I tied the wool back on. My hands were shaking and I made a mess of the knot. When I looked up, the sheep were grazing again. The woman was gone.
I changed my route. I can’t explain why I connected the woman with a few inches of yarn, or why tying it back felt necessary. I only know that while I held it loose, I couldn’t persuade myself to turn my back on that field.
