Poor Fool (8K)

"Poor thing," he whispered, placing it in his velvet-lined tin.

"It's going to fly again, Mrs. Gable," Silas would say, his eyes shining with a frantic, foolish light. "You'll see." Poor Fool

Silas was not a wicked man; he was simply a very poor fool. He lived in a cramped attic room that smelled of old paper and boiled cabbage, his only companions being a stack of overdue library books and a dream too large for his tiny existence. Silas dreamed of being a collector. Not of stamps or coins, but of lost things—buttons, stray keys, bits of string, and secrets dropped on the sidewalk. "Poor thing," he whispered, placing it in his

For weeks, Silas spent his meager earnings on polishing clothes and delicate pliers, trying to fix the bird. He didn't eat properly, skipping meals to afford a specific type of silver polish. He neglected his job delivering packages, losing his tips because he was too busy polishing the left wing. "You'll see

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