The Rabbit and the Fox

One winter,
a rabbit came upon a fox
lying in the snow.

The fox was thin, tired, and sick.

The rabbit brought the fox back
to her burrow.

After that,
she began going out each day
in search of food.

She looked for things
the fox would want—
berries, fish, kale—
things she herself would never eat.

Slowly,
the carrots in the burrow
disappeared.

At times, she would sit
and watch
as the fox ate.

She could not quite say
when this had become her role,
or why she remained in it.

She stopped wandering.
Stopped playing.

Her days grew smaller,
until they were shaped by
a single, quiet question:

what to bring back next.

Then one day,
the fox was gone.

No word.
No good-bye.

The burrow remained—
only emptier than before.

The rabbit stood there
for a long while.

She did not know
how to respond.

At last—

she stepped outside,
pulled a carrot
from the frozen soil,

and took a bite.

She paused.

It had been so long
since she had tasted one that
it felt almost unfamiliar—

and then,
suddenly, it did not.

She took another bite.

And then, quietly,
she began to laugh.

“I had this all along,”
she thought.

In the days that followed,
she gathered carrots again.

The burrow filled, slowly,
with what had been there before.

Another year went by.

Winter came again.

One evening,
on her way home,
she saw another animal
in the snow—

hungry
and almost motionless.

The rabbit hesitated.

Then she stepped forward,
placed two carrots beside it,
and withdrew.

She did not stay.

She did not bring it home.

Back in her burrow,
she finished her carrots
quietly.

And that night,
she slept—

deeply,
without interruption.