Poor: Fool

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

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

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

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