Primrose kneels in the grass and peers between the roots of the old oak tree. Her basket sits beside her, heavy with painted eggs that just sat there waiting to be found. But the last one — the one that matters — keeps slipping away. She catches a flash of color tucked deep in the shadows, bright against the dark earth. Her breath stops. She blinks. It's gone. She leans closer, squinting into the tangle of roots and vines. Yellow flowers droop overhead, their petals brushing her hair. The roots twist together like braided rope, creating pockets of darkness she can't quite see into. Something lavender-pale sits far back in one of those shadows, but when she shifts her weight, the angle changes and there's only earth. Primrose rocks back on her heels and notices the prints. Tiny three-toed marks pressed into the soft dirt near the burrow entrance. They scatter in different directions like someone couldn't decide which way to run. She traces one with her finger. It's smaller than her thumb. She sets her basket down and sits cross-legged in front of the overgrown opening. The egg knows she's here. It saw her just like she saw it. Now it's waiting to see what she'll do. Primrose folds her hands in her lap and goes still. Her fancy dress spreads around her like petals. She doesn't reach into the burrow or call out or try to trick it into showing itself. She just waits, because the best things can't be grabbed.

The prints don't stop at the burrow. Primrose sees them now, trailing away through the grass in a line so clear she wonders how she missed it before. They press into the soft earth between dandelions and clover, each tiny mark pointing the same direction — away from the oak tree, away from all the places she already searched. She stands and follows them. Her basket stays behind, propped against the oak's roots with its blue grass arranged just so. If the egg comes back while she's gone, it will know she left something for it. The prints lead her past the spot where she found the yellow egg, then past the lavender rocks where two more hid in the crevices. They wind through tall grass that brushes her knees and across a patch of bare dirt where the marks show up darkest. The trail ends at a tree she's never really looked at before — a hollow tree with pale pink flowers covering its branches and a blue door set into its trunk. The prints circle the door three times, then stop. Primrose kneels and touches the last mark. It's fresh. She looks up at the door, then at the white gazebo just beyond it, wrapped in vines and yellow flowers. She walked past both these things twice today and never thought to check them. She doesn't try the door. Instead, she sits on the gazebo steps and waits. The egg led her here on purpose, showed her a path she could follow. Now it knows where she is. If it wants to be found, it will come out. If it wants to stay hidden, forcing the door won't change that. Primrose smooths her dress and watches the blue door. She understands something now she didn't before: the egg isn't running away from her. It's leading her somewhere, one step at a time.

Primrose hears it before she sees anything — a soft scratching sound from inside the gazebo, like something small moving across wood. She goes still. The blue door hasn't opened, but she's not alone anymore. Someone else is here, tucked somewhere in the shadows behind the flowering vines. She steps up onto the gazebo floor and spots them: a dog with floppy ears and a brown collar, nose pressed to the boards where the vines grow thickest. Next to the dog sits a piece of paper covered in crayon marks — bright pink and yellow lines showing the oak tree, the hollow tree with its blue door, and a big X marked right where the gazebo stands. Someone drew this. Someone who knew exactly where the egg would lead. Primrose picks up the map. The lines are messy but clear. Whoever made this wasn't following prints or guessing. They knew the egg's path before it even happened. The dog lifts its head and wags its tail, then goes back to sniffing at something wedged between two floorboards — a spot Primrose can't quite see from where she stands. She kneels beside the dog and peers into the gap. There, tucked deep in shadow, is the egg. Not moving now. Just waiting. But before she can reach for it, she hears footsteps behind her — boots on wood. Someone is coming back for their dog, their map, and the egg they already found. Primrose doesn't grab it. She stands and turns to face whoever knew the secret first.

The dog doesn't look up when the footsteps stop. It just keeps digging at the gap between the boards, tail wagging harder now. Primrose stays where she is, the crayon map still in her hands, and waits to see who will speak first. But no one comes. The footsteps fade toward the hollow tree instead, and the dog finally breaks through. Dirt sprays up from under the gazebo as its front paws disappear into a hollow space below. Primrose drops to her knees and peers into the gap the dog has made. The hollow runs deep beneath the floorboards — wide enough for something small to crawl through. Inside, she spots bleached antlers arranged in a careful pile around a pink ball, like someone built a nest. The dog squirms halfway down, then backs out with something in its mouth. Not the egg. A locket on a tarnished silver chain, dirt smudged across the painted pink flower on its front. Primrose reaches for it, and the dog drops the locket into her palm without hesitation. She pops it open. Inside is a tiny photograph of the dog and a smiling face she doesn't recognize. Someone who loved this dog enough to hide a locket in a secret place. Someone who knew about the hollow, the egg, and the path it would take. The dog licks her hand once, then dives back into the hole. This time it comes up with the egg cradled gently in its teeth. The dog sets the egg down between them and sits, waiting. Primrose doesn't grab it. She holds very still, just like she planned, and lets the dog decide. After a moment, it noses the egg toward her basket, then paws at the locket in her hand. The trade is clear. The egg for the locket. Primrose closes her fingers around the chain and nods. She tucks the locket into her dress pocket and places the egg carefully in her basket. The dog wags its tail, satisfied, and curls up in the dirt beside its antler nest. Primrose stands and steps away from the gazebo, changed. The egg didn't choose her. It chose the dog. And the dog chose to let it go.

Primrose makes it three steps from the gazebo before the egg shifts in her basket. She stops, looks down, and watches it roll from one corner to the other. Not a wobble from her walking. A deliberate move, like it's testing the space. She takes another step. The egg rolls again, this time settling against the moss lining where her other eggs sit still and safe. By the time she reaches the stone marker with the paw print carved into it — the spot where the dog first nosed the egg toward her — the basket feels lighter. She looks down and counts. One egg short. The special egg is gone. Primrose doesn't panic. She sets the basket on the ground and kneels beside it, waiting. The egg moved twice, which means it chose to stay with her twice before leaving. That's more than any of the others ever did. She reaches into her pocket and pulls out the locket, turning it over in her palm. The dog traded the egg for this. But the egg never agreed to be traded. Something glints in the grass near the marker. Primrose crawls forward and finds it — a crystal egg, clear as glass, catching the light in a spray of pastel colors. She picks it up carefully and holds it to the sun. Inside, she can see her own face reflected a hundred times in the facets. The egg didn't disappear. It changed. And now it's not something to catch or keep. It's something to see through. She tucks it into her basket and stands, understanding that the egg was never hers to hold. It was hers to let go.

Primrose turns the crystal egg over in her palm, watching the light scatter across her fingers. Then it moves. Not a slip or a roll from her hand shifting. A deliberate turn, like it's deciding something. She sets it back in the basket, but it keeps moving, pushing against the moss lining until it reaches the edge. The basket tilts. Just barely, but enough that she has to grab it to keep the other eggs from spilling. The crystal egg doesn't stop. It rolls to the very rim and stays there, pulling the whole basket forward like it weighs more than glass should weigh. Primrose looks down at it, then up at the path ahead. The egg isn't trying to escape. It's trying to lead her somewhere new. Again. She takes a step, testing. The egg settles back into the basket, content. She stops, and it rolls to the edge again, insistent. This time she can see where it wants to go — a pathway lined with flowers and decorated eggs, trees arching overhead in pink and yellow blooms. She's never noticed it before, though it's bright enough to see from anywhere in the hunting grounds. Beyond the trees stands an arch wrapped in ribbons and roses, marking an entrance she doesn't recognize. The egg pulls harder. Her basket tips so far forward that her other eggs shift and knock together. If she doesn't follow, she'll lose them all. Primrose grabs the basket with both hands and runs. Not because she wants to, but because the crystal egg gives her no choice. It drags her forward, the basket swinging wild at her side, her dress catching on grass and flowers as she rushes past the stone marker, past the gazebo, toward the arch she's never seen before. The egg glows brighter the closer she gets, throwing colored light across her face like a hundred tiny mirrors. She can see herself reflected in each facet — running, breathless, pulled along by something she thought she understood. But when she passes under the arch, the egg stops moving. The basket steadies. And Primrose realizes she's standing in a place she doesn't recognize, surrounded by paths that lead in directions she's never walked. She sets the basket down carefully and kneels beside it. The crystal egg sits still now, no longer pulling, no longer glowing. It brought her here and then let go. Primrose looks back at the arch, then forward at the unfamiliar paths branching out in three directions. She could go back. The arch is right there, and she knows the way home. But the egg didn't bring her here to turn around. It brought her here to choose. For the first time since the hunt began, Primrose isn't following something that's running away. She's standing at the start of something new, and the egg won't decide for her. This time, she has to decide where to go next.

Primrose picks up the crystal egg and holds it to the light. It doesn't pull anymore. Doesn't glow. The other eggs in her basket sit quiet, just like they always have. Only this one ever moved, and now it's stopped. She looks at the three paths stretching out ahead, then back at the arch behind her. The egg warms in her hand. Not hot, just warm like something breathing. She sets it down on the path and kneels beside it, watching. A thin crack appears down the center, so fine she almost misses it. Then another crack spreads from the first, branching out like tree roots. Light spills through the cracks, bright enough to make her squint. The egg splits open with a soft sound, like glass breaking underwater. The pieces fall away and scatter on the ground, glowing where they land. Something small unfolds from the shards. Lavender skin catches the light. Wings unfold, delicate and see-through. White hair spills down past tiny shoulders. The creature blinks up at Primrose with purple eyes, then takes one wobbly step forward before sitting down hard. It looks at her, tilts its head, and makes a sound like wind through flower petals. Where the egg broke open, the ground glows blue, cracks spreading through the soil in a perfect circle. Pink moss springs up around the edges, fresh and soft. Primrose holds very still, just like she planned to do if the egg found her first. The creature stands again, steadier this time, and reaches one small hand toward her basket. Not taking. Just touching the edge, curious. Primrose understands then what the egg wanted all along. Not to be caught or kept or carried home. It wanted to become something new, and it needed her to bring it to the right place to do it. She lifts her basket and tips it gently, spilling her other eggs onto the moss. The creature picks one up, turns it over, sets it down. Then it looks at Primrose and points down the middle path. She knows what that means. The hunt isn't over. It's just beginning again, and this time she won't be hunting alone.