I tell stories. I don’t know where they come from. They just are there, and at night, when all the street’s children gather under the bridge, I tell my stories.
We are the forgotten ones. No one cares that we exist. No one but my stories.
I have told many.
When they come to me, with their pain, their loss, their empty eyes, I sit them down and tell them about the fox, and the hare, and the tortoise.
I tell them about the stars that come to play at night, and about the trees that whisper.
We have none of those here, in this old town where shining spaceships fly over as fast as their engines can carry them.
We are forgotten. The war has ended and we were left here to live out our days.
Above us, the world continues to expand.
Here, I sit and tell my stories as medicine for broken hearts.
I hope, one day, I can find the story that heals mine.

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