Maya crouched by the puddle after rain. She gasped. A tiny rainbow curled inside, flickering weakly.
She dipped her fingers in and lifted it out. It trembled against her palms, barely warm. A living rainbow.
Maya walked down the path and held the rainbow toward Old Man Hemlock. He stopped sweeping and stared.
The rainbow slipped into his broom bristles. Red, orange, yellow stripes bloomed across the wood. He hummed — one long, happy note — and swept on.
At the bakery, Maya offered the rainbow to Mrs. Patel, who was kneading dough. The rainbow squirmed free.
It landed on cooling bread rolls, painting each one a different color. Mrs. Patel laughed — bright and bubbling — and wrapped one for Maya.
Maya ran toward the edge of the village where the forest began. But the rainbow in her hands was growing dimmer again.
She held it up to the sky and whispered, 'Stay bright, please stay bright.' But the rainbow only curled tighter against her chest.
Maya stood at the forest edge and opened both hands wide. She took a breath.
The rainbow unfolded like a sleeping bird stretching its wings. First a trickle of red, then a ribbon of gold, then —
— an arc of every color soared up into the wet, sunlit air. Maya threw her head back and laughed.
A second rainbow answered from the treetops. The forest had never looked so bright.