By Hadrian Hazlitt
She was sitting by the window, looking out into the starry sky. Behind her was her Mother; she was ill on her bed.
The night was cold, but she didn’t mind. She was waiting for a shooting stars — her only chance. Doctors were unable to cure her mother.
Perhaps a wish upon a star makes a difference. She waited for an hour. Then she rubbed her eyes. At last a streak of light passed through. She closed her eyes and she said her wish silently. She slept.
In the morning her mother was dead.