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.
The next morning, Silas threw away his polishing rags. He went to work. He bought a warm loaf of bread. He was still a poor man, but as he walked down the street, he no longer looked at the gutters. He looked up at the sky. Poor Fool
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. Silas was not a wicked man; he was simply a very poor fool
