The girl stood by the well. The fall air was crisp, surprising. Was it not just yesterday that she had longed for the late night sun of early summer? It always felt like she was waiting for warmth and light or letting it slip from her grasp. Like she never fully had it.
The well was dry. One can only offer water to so many who pass by before reaching the dregs. And it’s not like she could add more, couldn’t bring herself to dip into anyone else’s well and risk taking what they needed. It didn’t work that way. One cannot simply take without invitation. She had to wait for more rain to come and fill it.
She hoped maybe one day, someone would bring a sip of water for her from their own well, but of course she would never venture from her spot as guardian of that-which-once-held-hydration to go ask, and no one knew to bring any to her.
The well was dry. The wind was crisp. The crescent moon still offered light. She stood there in its beam, parched, guarding her empty well.