The Perfect Pebble

 

She needed just one; A pebble the size of a tear. Smooth enough to stop wind, round enough to nest her dreams. The Perfect Pebble. 

The hole in her tree whispered again. Whispering stories of secrets to the moss. Winters coming. She has to have it. The Perfect Pebble. 

Strolling past a web made of spun string, each thread whispering warning to her, a shadow shifts. "You search for round," said the Spider, voice like fog and threading needles. "Why no corners? Do they not hold more secrets?" Eyes glinting like polished stone. She inhales a sharp breath, "Corners catch the wind. I like sleep." She replies. 

Smiling, he moves away, "Then sleep carefully."

Later, under bursting blooms she saw her- the Butterfly. Wings like painted lies. She fluttered nearer, voice like melted sugar, "Still carrying it all alone?", she asked, landing on a puddle of light. "Pebbles are for ants. You my, dear, were meant to fly." She watches the wings. Eyes hidden in swirls. Patterns too perfect to trust. Still, she smiles. "Flying doesn't patch my home. But thank you." 

She almost gave up when it happened. When she found it- under a root curled as if in question. Warm from the sun, perfectly sized for her needs. Not too perfect. Not too ugly. Felt just like hers. The Perfect Pebble.

She rolled it back on trembling legs. Not fear. Memory. She slept with the Pebble in, and the wind out. Stupid? Brave? Perhaps. But still, the wind stays outside. She dreamed then, without corners. The Perfect Pebble in place at last.