A Drop of Sunshine

Edmund finds it where the light pools strongest, just beneath the old pear tree where the grass has gone thin from too many summers. At first he thinks it’s a trick of the sun, something caught between his eyes and the ground, but when he crouches, it remains — a small, faceted drop resting against the roots, warm before he even touches it.

It sits in his palm like something that has weight beyond its size. Not hot, not bright, just steady, as if it has been holding that colour for a long time. He turns it once, watching how the light gathers inside it instead of passing through. The afternoon stretches on around him — bees moving slow, the fence creaking, someone calling from a distance he doesn’t answer.

Later, the chain is added without much thought. It holds the drop close, where it moves slightly with each step, catching and keeping what light it can. Even indoors, it doesn’t quite dull. It carries a trace of that patch of ground, that hour of the day when everything settles and the sun seems to stay just a little longer than it should.