The Morning The Bunny Made A Mess

I noticed the carrots first, or what was left of them. They were sitting on the edge of the kitchen table in a way that didn’t feel quite right, like someone had meant to clean them up and then got distracted halfway through. One of them had a bite taken out of it, not neatly, not carefully, just a rough little crescent missing from the side. For a second, I stood there trying to remember if I had done that the night before, if this was something ordinary that I just wasn’t placing correctly.

But then I looked down.

There were footprints on the floor. Not the kind you track in from outside, not muddy or wet, but soft, powdery, scattered across the wood like something had drifted through instead of walked. A light dusting of flour, uneven and smudged in places, leading from the back door all the way into the kitchen. I followed them slowly, past the table, past the counter, noticing little details as I went. A chair slightly out of place. A bowl tipped just enough to suggest it had been moved quickly. And glitter, just a hint of it, catching the morning light in a way that made everything feel a little less explainable.

I was still standing there when I heard them upstairs.

It starts the same way every year, that moment where they’re not fully awake yet but already hopeful. A door creaks open, a voice calls out, and then the quiet question that carries just enough excitement to make you pause before answering. I didn’t rush it. I just said they might want to come see.

The sound of feet coming down the stairs is something I wish I could bottle. It’s not just noise, it’s anticipation, it’s belief moving quickly through a house that suddenly feels like it’s holding a secret. They saw the footprints before I said anything. They saw the carrots. They saw the glitter. And just like that, the morning shifted into something else entirely.

We found eggs in places that made no sense. Tucked behind couch cushions, balanced on windowsills, somehow even one sitting quietly in the fruit bowl like it had always belonged there. There was no system to it, no logic, just the kind of scattered, hurried hiding you’d expect from someone who had a lot to do and not enough time to do it.

The note came last.

It was slightly crumpled, written in a way that felt rushed but intentional, like whoever left it had paused just long enough to make sure it mattered. It said, simply, “Sorry for the mess. I was in a rush. Happy Easter.” There was something about that line that made the whole thing feel real in a way I can’t quite explain. Not polished, not perfect, just enough to suggest that something had passed through and left traces behind.

They didn’t question any of it. They didn’t look for explanations or try to piece it apart. They just moved through it, fully inside the moment, accepting it as it was offered. And standing there, watching them, I realized that none of this had anything to do with getting it right. The footprints weren’t perfect. The carrots were uneven. The glitter was already starting to spread into places I knew I’d be cleaning later.

But the house felt different.

Lighter, somehow. Like something small and invisible had moved through it and shifted the air just enough to make everything feel a little more possible.

And all it really took was a handful of flour, a few carrots, and the decision to believe in it for a minute.