Eleanor's condition was critical—she was still alive only because of the ventilator.
Her frail body looked lifeless, like she was just an empty shell lying there.
But she hadn't always been like this.
He still remembered the first time he saw her—a scrawny girl in tattered clothes, eyes wide and shining with curiosity, sneaking glances at him. When he caught her looking, she'd flushed bright red.
He handed her a box of cookies.
She held it like it was some kind of treasure.
A whole month later, when he saw her again, the box was still with her.
He'd thought she was a bit dim—maybe just dirt poor?
Honestly, it was kind of funny.
He'd tossed her that box without thinking, and she kept it like gold. Didn't even eat it—what, waiting for it to grow mold?
Eleanor
