Mia found the paintbrush on the last day of summer, wedged between the roots of the old apple tree.
It was nothing special to look at — a bit worn, bristles splayed. But when Mia painted a butterfly on the garden wall, something extraordinary happened.
The butterfly lifted from the stone and flew away.
Mia stared.
She painted a bowl of strawberries. She ate every one.
She painted a door in the garden wall. It swung open to reveal a meadow she had never seen, full of silver grass and amber flowers.
Mia stepped through.
The meadow was extraordinary. Creatures made entirely of colour wandered through the grass — a fox of deep crimson, a rabbit of brilliant blue, a deer shimmering in gold.
"Did you paint us?" asked the crimson fox.
"No," said Mia. "I've never been here before."
The fox looked at her paintbrush. "That belonged to the first dreamer," it said. "She painted this whole world. But she grew old and put down the brush."
"What happens to the world now?" Mia asked.
"That depends," said the fox, "on what you choose to paint."
Mia looked around — at the silver grass, the amber flowers, the creatures of colour watching her with patient, hopeful eyes.
She uncapped a pot of the deepest blue she had ever seen.
And she began.
Hours later, when Mia stepped back through the door and into the garden, the sun was setting and the stars were coming out.
She sat under the apple tree, paintbrush in hand, and smiled.
Some worlds are waiting for exactly the right person to continue them.