He placed the bread into her palm, a coin, a coat, a gentle word and in the mirror of her thanks he saw himself, his kindness heard. The cost to him was thin as air, a trifle skimmed from comfort’s hoard; yet in his chest he felt the crown that kings of mercy often afford. Would he have given, when the days left nothing spare to call his own? would he have shared his single meal and faced the night with hunger grown? The truest gift forgets the hand, its giving done as rivers should; he gave only what he could spare, and kept the rest for winter’s snow.
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