The Easter bunny

As the soft April sun filtered through the budding trees, casting dappled shadows across your backyard, you noticed something peculiar glinting among the dew-kissed grass. Vibrant, jewel-toned Easter eggs, their surfaces swirling with intricate patterns, were scattered haphazardly around your garden—under the azaleas, nestled in the flowerbeds, even perched precariously on the old birdbath. You paused, puzzled, since you lived alone with no children to justify an Easter egg hunt. The sight stirred a nostalgic itch, and after a moment’s hesitation, you rummaged through the garage to unearth a dusty wicker Easter basket from years past, its faded ribbons still clinging to the handle. With a curious grin, you stepped into the yard and began collecting the eggs, their smooth shells cool against your fingers as you marveled at their craftsmanship. Each one seemed to hum faintly with an odd warmth, and as you bent to pick up a particularly dazzling sapphire egg half-hidden by the garden gnome, a soft rustle came from the bushes, followed by the faintest jingle of bells and a mischievous chuckle that made the hairs on your neck prickle…