Wrecked, Solitary, Here
By Spectral Scribe
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Green leaves wilted and shriveled away, shrank into shadows, dried up, turned brown like the crumbling flowers. All desiccated, all withered, all wasted to a fragile crisp. All dead.
No great oceans of water could re-hydrate the poor, pathetic plants; no nutrients nor hearty sunlight could revive them from the hollow, empty state they now assumed.
What's dead should stay dead.
The hood was warm with early morning sun; alive. Like him.
But all his bone-dry heart's salt tears could not refresh the dead pit within him. There had to be something to make it all right.
Sam said nothing.
