The Guardian

 

    The field was quiet except for the soft taps of rain on the grass. A crude bear, drawn in charcoal on a bale of hay, stared out with wide, uneven eyes. Its snout was lopsided, its paws little more than smudges. Someone had meant it to be a target—arrows still stuck out of its side like harsh accusations.

    But now, I stood beside it, holding an umbrella aloft like a father protecting his child. The rain was soaking into my shoes. The umbrella was black, frayed at the edges, and tilted just enough to keep the bear’s face dry.

    “I know you’re not real,” I whispered. “But I also know what it feels like to be left out in the rain.”

    Somewhere in the distance, thunder rolled.