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.