“And the man in the straw danced and danced …”
“Till the morning came and changed his chance?”
Thomas stroked his granddaughter’s head. She never tired of the story. Her favorite, and she knew it by heart. As he knew her many expressions, the myriad of small sounds she made as she dreamed each night.
She was his favorite. His only, but still his favorite. No one could convince him otherwise.
“Grandpa?” the child burrowed deeper into her blankets.
“Do you think the man in the straw ever wanted to be something else?”
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