Easter special with a short story The First Path

More about Easter special with a short story The First Path

The sun was low, as if it had settled on the warm sand. The light painted shimmering patterns on the dunes, while the waves kissed the shore in small arcs. The wind smelled of salt, of warmth, of a promise. And there, in the middle of a nest of sand and stories, something stirred. An egg—round, dull, with fine cracks. Then a tremor. Very gently. Like a sigh. Another crack, a faint crack, barely audible over the murmur of the surf. A small piece of shell fell to the ground. And from the opening, an eye blinked. Dark, shiny, alert. Then the rest appeared: a tiny head, two clumsy flippers, a soft shell that still smelled of the nest. The turtle was born. It lay still, breathing shallowly. Around it, its siblings still slumbered, hidden in their eggs. But it—it was in a hurry. Not frantically. Not out of fear. But because she knew: the light was there, and it was just waiting for her. Slowly she crawled away. Her belly rubbed against the warm sand, her fins paddled uncertainly, like a dance one has yet to learn. But with every stroke she came closer – to the glitter on the horizon, the silver song of the waves, the endless blue. Crabs peered out of holes, seagulls circled high above. And yet it seemed as if this moment were just for her. As if the beach were holding its breath. She stumbled over a small piece of shell, lay there for a moment, as if to think it over. Then she carried on. Unstoppable. Slowly. Bravely. One last hill of sand. Then, for the first time, water beneath her fins. She trembled. Not from the cold – from greatness. Because the sea was not just water. It was a promise that hummed like an old melody: Come. One small jump. One splash. And she was gone. Not lost. Not vanished. But taken in. Embraced. She moved differently in the water—fluidly, lightly. As if she had finally reached home. Her shell gleamed in the backlight. Her eyes were wide open. And somewhere out there, beyond the waves, a reef waited. Or a current. Or an adventure. A single imprint remained on the beach. Small, flat, full of hope. And maybe, one day, when the wind is right and the tides allow it, she'll come back. Maybe. Maybe not. But her story has begun. And that's enough.