The sun’s rays shone through the tall trees as the two people’s feet crunched along the gravel path toward English Bay to watch the cargo ships. There was a pleasant warmth in the air — not enough to lose the light jacket Peter wore, but just enough to remind him that spring had truly arrived.

One of them a human walked in his usual half-alert shuffle, his eyes scanning the edges of the path, following every rustle like it meant something. Always hunting. Always searching. That little sensor box clipped to his hip beeped softly every few steps, picking up who-knows-what and making you mutter annoyedly under your breath.

You’d brought Gregg out here to try and settle his nerves — to distract him before Easter hit full swing. Gregg always spiraled in the days leading up to it. that if you didn’t intervene, Gregg would spend the entire weekend buried in conspiracy forums and red string.

But this year... things were different.

This year, you are the Easter Bunny.

It wasn’t something You had expected — the role is passed quietly, chosen among the community, more magic than logic. It was never about gender, or performance, or even skill. It was about heart. And for some reason, this year, they’d seen something in you.

Now you are out here with his satchel full of homemade eggs, slipping away one at a time to hide them in the wild, under the nose of the Easter Bunnies biggest and most obsessed hunter.

You glanced at Gregg, who was muttering about how squirrels might be in league with “the Bunny Syndicate,”

You make a quick excuse before ducking into the bush. You go from tree to tree placing painted eggs at their base. Moving swiftly and gracefully without disturbing any greenery.

Then you suddenly hear a snap of a twig and whirl around the satchel still half-open to see Gregg frozen in place, staring wide eyed.

“You’re the Easter Bunny,”