Carcass

She found the poor thing lying by the roadside. It was stiff from the cold, and quite dead.

Even in death, the little creature was oddly beautiful; its delicate plumage was a complex weave of shimmering green and bright red, almost pink, and its talons were sleek and black. The eyes were closed, but with a little effort, she could almost imagine its sharp, piercing gaze following her about again.

She remembered how they used to hook themselves into her back when she tidied the house, in the old days, when she still had a home with him and his family. She remembered the gaze well. She couldn't remember her home.

Stooping down, she lifted the small bird in her hands, and cradles it to her bosom. She carried it back the way she came; past the ditch with the mouldy half-eaten apple, past the streetlamp with the abandoned umbrella, past the brick wall with the old bundle of rags heaped against it. She shuffled as she walked, slowly, deliberately, almost like a funeral march.

No one will tell you who she is, or where she comes from. No one knows why she holds the dead bird in her hands. She will bury its body far from the roadside, in a glen, perhaps, or a field somewhere where the earth is soft and the world is merciful. She will bury her memories with it, if she can.