Pip rolled through the Grand Lost & Found Hotel lobby. Past a moth-eaten teddy and a one-eared rubber duck. Everything here was lost. Everything here was waiting.
Pip rolled down the main hallway, his wheels soft on the carpet. Then his shadow peeled off the floor and pointed toward the attic stairs.
The shadow tugged his handle. Up the stairs it went, through a narrow door, and stopped at a trunk in the corner of Room 47.
Room 47. Dust covered everything. The shadow hummed, and the brass knob on the trunk began to rattle.
Pip pushed the trunk open with his strap. Something white and folded flew out.
The paper airplane circled his zippers twice. Then it dropped, right into his main compartment.
The shadow glowed gold and wrapped around him. A child's voice whispered, 'I'll never forget you, Pip.'
Sunlight pooled inside Pip's open compartments. He sat by the window. His paper airplane rested on his lap.
Pip used to worry about being lost. Now he knew something else.
He was not lost. He was found. And his paper airplane would fly again someday.
