The Invention of Joy

         The gray air delivered her a limp hug as she stepped out into the silent day. She had been a child for as long as she could remember; as long as time had existed. But then again, everyone was like a child in those days. She began her daily ritual of walking around the town. The reason for this routine had been long forgotten, or rather, never remembered.  As she passed by the pharmacy, an elderly man sat on a rusty bench, his skin seemingly dripping off his face. He kept his eyes straight ahead and his hands folded gallantly in his lap. The girl passed by without even noticing him.  There were a few other people in the town, too.  They walked around with blank expressions and empty souls. You see, these people were given the gift of time, but were never instructed on how to use it.
         Every day on this walk, there was a small, gray, rather ugly sparrow hopping around on the concrete. Every day, it was in the girl’s path. Every day, it hopped away before the perfunctory girl, who was only vaguely aware of its presence, stepped on it. Every day.
         Years passed, and everything was still exactly as it had always been: daily walks, old men, and ugly sparrows. No one ever thought about changing anything; in fact, no one really thought at all. That is, until one day when the sparrow failed to hop out of the way of the girl (who still had a child’s body). She gasped as if waking up from a deep sleep, and stopped her foot just short of crushing the innocent bird. Not that it would have mattered anyway: the bird was half dead. Reddish-brown blood trickled through its feathers and onto the concrete sidewalk. Its black, beady eyes were languid.
         The sparrow’s beak was opening and closing, but no sound came out. It was as if it were trying to call for help, or moan in pain, or sing. Yes, sing!  The sparrow was using all the energy it could find in its wounded body to sing. To sing its final song. This was its final song, and it was silent.
         At that moment, the girl suddenly realized this, and she had an epiphany: “If there was an entire planet filled with flowers of the brightest, most intense colors, forests covered with snow as white as purity itself, and rivers made of beauty, I suppose it still wouldn’t be as beautiful as that sparrow’s silent song.”
         This thought danced through her fallow mind, and although the sparrow was now dead, she felt joy. For the first time since time began, someone felt joy. It was then that she collapsed and took her place beside the sparrow.