It’s always a quiet moment, a breath between the clink of old metal and the hush of a quiet place. I once found a small, worn bone on a hillside that felt like a tiny prayer, its surface warm when I held it, as if the earth itself had whispered to me. Those little things—coins, stones, a feather—often act as a bridge, a gentle reminder that healing can come from the simplest gestures. When I hold them, I feel a balance settle in, like the wind easing a storm inside. The most beautiful gifts are often the ones that need no words, just a gentle touch and a listening heart.