Small Stories
Wisteria knelt before the muddy puddle and pointed. In it, a shining yellow chick shivered against the bitter cold, its peeps already softer than even when we'd first arrived.
"She smells sick, gran," Wisteria whispered. "We could save her."
I leaned on my cane and ground my front teeth. "She's a phoenix, child," I started. "We've got no place for her."
"But she'll die out here."
"Yes, but--" Every protest died before my granddaughter's tears. "Alright, Wisteria. And damn us both."
Small Stories
@literorrery We save the ones we can. Not the ones we 'should'.
Small Stories
@literorrery ... ah. You and I have different understandings of 'can' and 'should'.
Small Stories
@Momentrabbit Possibly.