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She seemed like any other peasant begging on the street—but somehow, someway, she was not like the others.

She stayed away from the other homeless peasants, many making a raucous on the streets they roamed in a drunken stupor.

As he passed her by with her cup sitting beside her on the dirt, she was thinking.

She thought of how she got there. How she was unable, eventually, to work the land. Her mother was ill, and she had no other choice but to care for her. The baron made them leave, anyway.

This man…he knew somehow, she was different. And he put money in her cup: the only coin for the entire day. Yet she took it gratefully; for once in a while, someone understood.


Submitted: October 29, 2022

© Copyright 2022 B.J. Vancheyson. All rights reserved.

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