Bea was the last egg in the basket.
She was small and blue with one wobbly white stripe that zigged when it should have zagged.
On the night before Easter, soft hands tucked Bea under a rosebush. "Someone will find you tomorrow," whispered a voice. "Someone always does."
Morning came. Sunlight. Giggles. Little feet everywhere.
Bea waited under her rosebush. She could hear children squealing. She could hear baskets rustling. She could hear eggs being found — pop, pop, pop — one after another.
"Over here!" a boy shouted.
Not here, thought Bea. Almost here. But not here.
The feet ran closer. Bea held very still. A sneaker stopped RIGHT next to her leaf.
Then it turned and ran the other way.
Pop. Another egg found. Not Bea.
The squealing got quieter. The baskets got fuller. One by one, the children went inside for pancakes.
And Bea was still under her rosebush.
The garden got very, very quiet.
A ladybug landed on Bea's wobbly white stripe. "Are you a rock?" asked the ladybug.
"I'm an egg," said Bea.
"What are you doing under here?"
"Waiting," said Bea. "Someone is coming to find me."
The ladybug waited with her for a while. Then it flew away.
The sun moved across the sky. Bea's blue shell got warm, then cool, then warm again. A worm pushed up through the dirt next to her and wiggled away without a word.
Days passed. Rain came. Bea's blue got softer. Her wobbly white stripe started to fade, little by little, like a chalk drawing on a sidewalk.
Dandelions grew up around her. A fat bee bumbled past and bumped into her — bonk — and buzzed away, embarrassed.
Bea didn't laugh. But she almost did.
She thought maybe everyone had forgotten about Easter. She thought maybe everyone had forgotten about eggs. She thought maybe she would just stay under this rosebush forever and ever and slowly turn into a small blue stone that nobody needed.
But then the rosebush grew a single red rose right above her, like an umbrella she hadn't asked for. And that felt nice.
Then one afternoon, a girl in rain boots came stomping through the garden.
Stomp, stomp, stomp. She wasn't looking for anything. She was just stomping because stomping felt good.
Her boot came down right next to Bea.
The girl stopped.
She bent down. She pushed the dandelions aside.
"Oh!" said the girl.
She picked Bea up — very gently, with two fingers — and held her in the sunlight. Bea's blue was pale now. Her white stripe was barely there. A little bit of dirt clung to one side like freckles.
"You've been out here a LONG time," the girl said.
She didn't put Bea in a basket. She didn't take her inside for pancakes. Easter was weeks and weeks ago. That part was over.
Instead she held Bea up to her cheek. The shell was cool and smooth.
"I'm gonna keep you," the girl whispered.
She set Bea on her windowsill that night, right between a pinecone and a gray feather — her other favorite found things.
Moonlight came through the window. It landed on Bea's faded blue shell and made it glow, just a little, like something that had been waiting a long time and didn't need to wait anymore.
The rose outside bobbed in the wind.
The girl was already sleeping.
And Bea was warm.
