Ember skips down the winding forest path, boots slapping soft grass. Then—stop. Something round gleams in the tall grass ahead.
She crouches, parts a tuft of dandelion fluff. There: the egg, mottled grey and cold, resting in the soil like a dropped stone.
She exhales. Both palms cup the small grey egg as meadow wind tugs her collar and dandelion seeds drift past her fingers.
She tucks the egg into her pocket and hurries. The tiny wooden cottage peeks through the trees just ahead.
Clover stems. A scrap of quilt. She lines the windowsill and presses her ear to the shell. Nothing.
Each evening: tap, tap against the grey. Only the kitchen clock ticks. Only the creek murmurs thin beyond the pane. She pats the egg the way you'd pat a sleeping bird.
Three nights later the egg shivers. A hairline crack splits the shell, leaking a thin thread of violet light into the dark.
The egg rocks in its clover bed, tilting left, then right, like a seed in wind. She strokes the cracked shell with one fingertip. Almost. The word slips out before she can catch it.
The meadow wind slams the door—thud. The shell bursts. A tiny wrinkled dragon, purple as a waxy iris, sneezes lavender sparkles straight onto her nose.
Out where the grass still holds the cold wet of dew. The dragon wraps its tail around her thumb. One small purple shadow pads after her boot, clover leaves stuck to its sticky scales.
