You're standing at the water's edge when you see it -- a small stone, still submerged where the sand is soft and always-wet. It stands out to you because its your favorite color -- the color you've never seen on any paint stick or color wheel, not perfectly anyway. You saw it once in the sunset but never again.
You hold the stone in your palm. It's still wet and even more beautiful up close, shot through with interesting shades, subtle parts that make up the whole.
You see it sitting on your mantle or nightstand, safe and symbolic. It will catch your eye each time you pass. It will tell you truths like even the imaginary can solidify.
But when you look at it again, resting there in your palm, you see it drying in places. The magic is patchy and evaporating.
Suddenly instinct closes your fingers and you fling the stone far across the water. It makes a very small splash. Gone.
But the waves will pick it up and move it back to this shore someday, tens or hundreds of years from now. You are certain of this. And the next finder won't be its keeper, either. At least not for long. Magic belongs to no one.