In a quiet riverbed, nestled among many other stones, there lived a small, round pebble.
She was smooth and grey, and she had never moved.
She watched the water flow around her, watched the leaves drift past, watched the fish swim by — and she felt a quiet ache.
“I want to roll,” she whispered to herself.
She longed to feel the current lift her, to tumble over other stones, to discover what lay beyond the next bend.
But she was heavy, and the water was gentle, and she stayed where she was.
One day, a young girl came to the river. She knelt by the water and sifted through the stones with her small, careful hands.
She picked up the pebble and held it in her palm.
“You are beautiful,” the girl said.
The pebble had never heard that word before.
The girl slipped the pebble into her pocket, and carried her home.
She placed her on a small wooden shelf by the window, where the sun could warm her, and where the girl could see her every day.
The pebble did not roll. She did not tumble. She did not travel down the river.
But she was seen. She was held. She was loved.
And she realised — she had been rolling all along, just not in the way she had imagined.
The End