The scrap of paper is haphazardly ripped at the edges, as if one larger piece had been torn to make many smaller ones. It crinkles and curls in at the corners, and even in the slightest breeze seems as though it might disappear, never to be found again.
Scrawled on it in a lightweight script is a riddle, waiting to be deciphered.
"Come to me,
Verdant sea,
Dancing in the windy rush.
Bright and blue,
The perfect hue,
A canvas for an artist’s brush."
It is begging—what am I? Come find me.
Scrawled on it in a lightweight script is a riddle, waiting to be deciphered.
"Come to me,
Verdant sea,
Dancing in the windy rush.
Bright and blue,
The perfect hue,
A canvas for an artist’s brush."
It is begging—what am I? Come find me.
