The Rolling Basketball

 In the quiet town of Willow Creek, where the streets sloped gently toward the river, a lone basketball sat abandoned at the top of Maple Hill. It had been left behind after an afternoon game at the old park, forgotten as the kids ran home for dinner.

As the sun dipped below the treetops, a gust of wind whispered through the trees, nudging the ball ever so slightly. It rocked, hesitated, then began to roll.

At first, it was slow—just a gentle wobble forward. But gravity took hold, pulling it faster. The ball bounced over cracks in the sidewalk, weaving between scattered leaves and twigs. It veered onto the asphalt, spinning wildly as it picked up speed.

A passing dog barked at the sight, trotting after it for a few steps before losing interest. A man unloading groceries from his car blinked in confusion as the ball zipped past him like it had a mind of its own.

Down, down it rolled, hitting a small pothole that sent it soaring for a brief moment before it landed with a heavy thud, rebounding off a mailbox. The impact changed its course, sending it zigzagging across the street. A cyclist swerved just in time to avoid it.

The ball hit the curb, launched into the air, and landed on the soft grass of the park below. It rolled to a stop at the edge of the riverbank, teetering for a moment before a final, fateful gust of wind nudged it over the edge.

With a quiet splash, the basketball disappeared into the slow-moving current, floating gently downstream, carried away by the water.

By morning, it would be gone—perhaps caught in the reeds, perhaps drifting toward another town, another game. But for that night, it was simply a ball on an adventure, rolling wherever the world decided to take it.