Lost in the Playroom

By Peter Bowden


In the playroom, morning light spilled across toy blocks and scattered puzzles. The teddy bear, once the captain of tea parties and the guard of secret forts, had slipped between the shelves during yesterday’s hurried cleanup. Now he lay half-hidden in shadows, forgotten among stray marbles and a broken crayon, his stitched smile fixed but his heart heavy with silence.

The playroom pulsed with life—dolls whispering of grand adventures, cars racing across worn carpet highways—but the teddy bear remained unseen. Dust motes floated like slow snow above him, each one a reminder of the child’s laughter he could no longer hear. He thought of soft hands carrying him to bed, of nights when he stood watch against nightmares. He wondered if those days had vanished, or if love might come searching once more.

When the door opened, the child rushed in, arms already outstretched for something missing. The bear felt a thump in his cotton chest as those searching eyes swept the room. A squeal of recognition, a dash forward, and suddenly he was lifted high into the light again. The playroom hushed in reverence. The teddy bear, worn but not forgotten, was home.

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