ToyHeart...

You grew up reading Sherlock Holmes and other mystery stories. And when they asked you what you wanted to be when you grew up, you said you wanted to be an undercover detective. And your mum bought you a black fedora hat on your 10th birthday and your grandparents gifted you a black coat on Christmas and you ran around with your toy pistols, fake knife and magnifying glass, pretending to uncover the goons and save the gold. You loved stumbling upon things, it made you feel like you discovered a secret that was never meant to be found. And so one day, in a fit of boredom, when you told me let's play a game, I said yes, knowing well what it would be. But you anyway went ahead and told me to hide something and you promised you would find it for me. And so I hid it. Under the mattress one time, in the microwave another time, you hated it when I hid it in cookie's doghouse, and you felt so proud when you found it hidden under the broken table lamp that you still haven't fixed. Then under the pillow you found one morning when you woke me up with a kiss, and then under the blue bell that one evening, and behind the yellow pinwheel that lazy Sunday afternoon, behind your dirty shoe rack when you were late for that important meeting, in the Periwinkle pot that I asked you to water while I was away, and one time in the garam-masala jar when you decided to impress me with your cooking skills; I hid it and no matter where, you always found it. Except this one time when I gave it to you. Why won't you see? Why won't you keep your promise this time and find it for me? Or was it, I fear, was it always just a game for you?