He found it accidentally. He was playing in the park near home. He tripped and there it was, staring with holes that were once eyes. It wasn’t quite white. More the colour of old milk. But smooth, the sun reflecting off the brow bone. He wondered who it had belonged to, if they still missed it, what its name was. He was young, his wonderings full of innocent presumption.
But he knew, somehow, that he couldn’t keep it. He visited. He named it; it belonged to him. and when he grew too old to visit, he missed it. He took comfort in knowing it could never die. For it wasn’t real, not really.
Over time, he convinced himself of this, until he became embarrassed by the memory, even though he’d shared it with no one. Eventually he thought of it for the last time, then not at all.