Most folks don’t ask questions. They just smile politely or avoid eye contact. Sometimes I get a little nod from another parent, like they recognize the brand of the stroller or assume I’m just walking off nap time.
But there’s no baby in it. Hasn’t been for three weeks.
Her name was Eloise. Seven months old. Loved ducks and hated bananas. She got sick fast. Too fast. The kind of sickness you don’t plan for because it only happens to “other people.”
And now… I don’t know. I keep doing the routine. Wake up, pack the bag, wipe down the handles, and walk the route we used to take. Past the dog park. Around the old oak bench. Down to the pond where she used to fall asleep to the sound of wind on the water.
It makes no sense. But it hurts more to stop.
Today started the same. Same coffee, same stroller, same quiet. I parked near the trail, sat down on the bench next to it, and just stared at nothing.
Then I looked back at the stroller.
There was something resting inside it.
A small yellow duck plush—just like the one she lost at the grocery store. Same frayed ribbon around the neck, same stitched crack down the beak.
But no one had walked past me. No footsteps, no voice. Just the quiet shuffle of leaves and the distant whirr of a lawnmower.
And tucked inside the duck’s wing was a note:
“You’re not walking alone.”
I read the note twice, then again. My hands were shaking. I looked around, half-expecting someone to step out from behind a tree or wave from the path. But there was no one.
My breath caught in my chest. I clutched the duck to my heart like it was made of glass. Somehow, it felt warm. Familiar.
I wanted to believe it was a sign. That maybe someone, somewhere, knew what I was going through. That I wasn’t invisible, even if my pain felt like it was wrapped in fog.
I slipped the duck into the stroller’s cup holder and walked the rest of the trail. Slower this time. More present. And for the first time in weeks, I wasn’t counting my steps or choking on guilt. I was just… walking.
That night, I couldn’t sleep. I kept the duck on my nightstand, its black button eyes catching the moonlight like it was watching over me. I didn’t tell anyone. Not yet. I wasn’t ready for the questions or the pity.
But the next morning, I walked again.
And again, something was in the stroller.
A flower this time. Not store-bought. Wild. The kind that grows near the pond—violet petals with a tiny bug nestled in the center. No note, but it was fresh. Plucked recently.
I scanned the trees. Nothing. No crunch of branches, no rustle in the bushes. Just that same quiet air, as if nature itself was holding its breath with me.
I started to wonder if I was losing it. If grief was playing tricks. Maybe I was putting things there in my sleep. Maybe this was just another stage of sorrow, like denial in disguise.
But on the third day, when I found a small drawing—crayon on torn notebook paper—of a baby and a duck, I knew this wasn’t just in my head.
The duck was yellow. The baby had a single curl on top, like Eloise used to. And beneath the picture were the words: “She remembers you.”
I sat on the bench for an hour, that note clutched in my lap, the drawing flapping in the wind. Tears rolled down my cheeks, but they didn’t sting like before. They were softer. Lighter.
I still didn’t know who was doing this. But somehow, they were giving me something I couldn’t give myself: permission to remember her without drowning.
I tried to catch them. I came early. I stayed late. I circled back and doubled around. Still, I never saw anyone. No one suspicious. No hidden cameras or curious faces.
Just the gifts. A tiny sock one day. A painted stone with the word “HOPE” on it the next. A feather tied to a string with a simple knot.
Each one felt intentional. Thoughtful. Like someone knew Eloise. Or knew me.
I started talking to the stroller again. Whispering little things I used to say to her.
“Look, birdies,” I’d point. “We should pick up some milk on the way back.” “You’d be giggling at that puppy, huh?”
I didn’t care if someone heard me. Maybe I hoped they would.
Two weeks passed, and still the gifts came. Always small. Always meaningful.
And then, one morning, I found something different.
Taped under the stroller’s canopy was a folded photograph. It was old, a little bent at the corners, black and white. A woman in a 1960s dress pushing a pram down what looked like this very trail. Her face was soft, gentle. And behind her, sitting on the same bench I used, was a man holding a sign that read:
“Grief is love with nowhere to go.”
This time, the note wasn’t on paper. It was written on the back of the photo.
“Her name was Marianne. She walked this trail too.”
I held that picture like a relic. My heart felt like it had cracked open—wider, yes, but not broken. Like I’d stepped into a secret club, one no one ever wants to join, but once inside, you’re never alone.
I went home and searched public archives, community history pages, anything I could find about a woman named Marianne who lost a child. It took hours, but eventually I found a mention in an old church newsletter from 1971. A brief memorial:
“Marianne Lockhart, beloved mother to infant Clara, whose spirit now dances among the daisies by Willow Pond.”
Willow Pond. That’s what the locals used to call it before the new developers paved the trail and renamed it “Maple Circle Path.”
Clara would have been over fifty now.
That night, I printed the photo and framed it. Set it beside Eloise’s picture on the mantel. Somehow, they belonged together.
I stopped trying to catch the gift-giver. I think deep down, I didn’t want to ruin the magic. Whoever they were, they were helping me heal.
But fate had other plans.
One rainy Tuesday, I arrived at the trail and found no gift in the stroller.
Instead, there was a woman sitting on the bench.
She looked to be in her late sixties, hair tucked under a knitted cap, eyes fixed on the pond. Her hands were folded in her lap, and next to her was a shopping bag—plastic duck feet poking out the top.
I didn’t say anything at first. I didn’t want to spook her. But she turned to me before I could walk away.
“You’re her mother, aren’t you?”
I froze. “I—yes. I mean… I was.”
She smiled gently. “You still are.”
I sat beside her, unsure what to say. She reached into the bag and pulled out a notebook. It was leather-bound, worn at the corners, tied with a ribbon.
“I started this after my Clara passed. I left little pages of it here and there, for others like me.”
She handed it to me.
Inside were letters. Dozens of them. Written in different handwriting, some on fancy stationery, others on napkins or receipts. All from parents. Some who had lost babies, others who had miscarried, some whose grown children never came home.
“We’ve been leaving things,” she said. “Me, and a few others. We don’t meet often. Just when it feels right.”
I was stunned. A quiet, hidden network of grieving parents, offering comfort not through grand gestures, but small tokens of love.
“We don’t have a name,” she said, “but we call ourselves the Trailkeepers.”
I flipped through more pages. Some messages were just a few words. Others were whole essays. All of them a lifeline.
“Why me?” I asked. “Why did you choose my stroller?”
She smiled. “Because you kept walking.”
We sat in silence, rain tapping gently on the canopy.
Before she left, she handed me one last envelope.
Inside was a blank card and a pen.
“You don’t have to,” she said. “But you can.”
So I did.
I wrote to the next person. Whoever they’d be. Told them about Eloise. About the ducks and the bananas. About the emptiness, yes—but also the hope that trickled in, one plush duck at a time.
Now, it’s been three months.
I still walk the trail. Still push the stroller.
But sometimes, now, I leave things too.
A pebble painted with a smiley face. A toy car. A ribbon with a baby’s name written in blue ink.
Sometimes I sit and read from the notebook. Other times I just walk. And every once in a while, I meet another Trailkeeper.
We never talk much. Just a nod. A smile.
That’s enough.
We don’t need to know each other’s names. We just need to remind each other:
You’re not walking alone.
If this story touched you, share it with someone who might need to hear it. You never know who’s still walking, quietly carrying what the world can’t see. ❤️
