The Jasper That Wasn’t

Adrian Vale had a habit of bringing home small pieces of the world.

A smooth stone from a state park. A shell from a beach with no name he could remember. A shard of amber glass polished soft by water. He kept them on his windowsill like tiny souvenirs of days he wanted to hold onto.

The one he loved most was a thumb-sized red stone he’d found on a trip years ago. Jasper, he’d always called it. It sat among the others, unremarkable to anyone else and strangely perfect to him.

Then one warm afternoon, he noticed ants.

Not just one or two. A busy, determined trail, crawling over the little red stone as if it had sprouted from sugar.

Adrian frowned. Rocks did not attract ants. Not unless something very odd was happening.

He picked it up, squinting at the surface. It still looked like the jasper he remembered. Mostly.

Curiosity won out. He carried the stone to the kitchen, set it in a bowl, and covered it with water.

At first nothing happened.

Then the color began to bleed away.

Adrian stared.

The “stone” softened.

He froze, then pressed a fingernail into it. The skin split. Something inside gave under the pressure.

A cold little dread crept up his spine.

He lifted the piece to his nose.

The smell hit him instantly: anise, sweet and strange and unmistakable.

For a long moment he simply stood there, one hand braced against the counter, the other holding a damp black licorice jelly bean.

Seven years.

He had carried it through a move, placed it on his windowsill for months, and proudly thought of it as his beloved jasper. The real rock, when his mother found it later and sent him a photo, was sitting safely at her house the entire time. Smaller than he remembered. Easier to mistake than he wanted to admit.

He laughed first.

Then he groaned.

Then he laughed again until his eyes watered.

The ants, he realized, had been the first intelligent life in the room.

By evening he had sealed the jelly bean in a clear plastic bag and set it beside the actual jasper, which now seemed to watch its impostor with quiet dignity. Adrian even considered making a label for it, the sort he made at the museum where he worked: proper font, neat description, ridiculous accuracy.

He never ate the jelly bean.

He couldn’t bring himself to.

Some things, he decided, were better preserved as evidence.