A dead bird laid lifelessly on a pile of dry leaves. Its wings were spread out, and all of its feathers were plucked up. In its chest was a wound, a fresh one. Its heart was gone, its head was severed from its body, and its tiny feet were tied together with a rope.
A small boy, wearing normal poor people's clothes, was silently watching the dead bird, fascinated at how fragile the creature was.
On his hand was the tiny blood-coated heart of the bird. He used a slingshot to catch the bird, plucked all of its feathers one by one, not caring even though the pitiful creature was crying in pain. And, after pulling every single feather of the bird, the young boy used a dull kitchen knife, ripped its chest open, and carefully gouged out its heart.
"I don't see anything inside its heart... And here I thought I would see the thing you love the most after I cut its heart open."
