Poor Fool ● 〈FRESH〉

Finally, the day arrived. The bird was gleaming, the wing perfectly straight. Silas sat on his fire escape, the setting sun catching the silver. He believed, with all the power of his foolish heart, that the bird would take flight. He opened his hand.

Silas froze. He didn't cry. He just stared at his empty, polished hand. Poor Fool

"Poor thing," he whispered, placing it in his velvet-lined tin. Finally, the day arrived

"It's going to fly again, Mrs. Gable," Silas would say, his eyes shining with a frantic, foolish light. "You'll see." He believed, with all the power of his

One Tuesday, Silas found a small, tarnished silver bird lying in the gutter. It was broken, one wing bent awkwardly, but to Silas, it was a treasure. He didn't see the rust; he saw the exquisite craftsmanship.

"Poor fool," he whispered to himself, a small, sad smile touching his lips. He realized he didn't even care where the bird had gone. It was just a thing.