They say cities outlive their kings. Maybe. But kings leave scars, and scars last longer than crowns. Mine are carved into every alley, every tenement window. I taught this city how to look away, how to step over the weak, how to let the old rot in silence. That was my gift. My legacy.
Now I’m stone. A gargoyle affixed to a granite wall, watching my kingdom rot the way I taught it to. For years, the streets kept my lessons alive—selfish, cruel, unfeeling. The city still spoke my language.
Then she appeared. The caregiver. She walks into the dark with nothing but her satchel and her stubborn mercy. She doesn’t just feed the hungry or steady the dying. The air changes around her. Tenants start checking on their neighbors. Nurses stop cutting corners. Even the drunks at the corner bar talk about her in hushed tones, like she’s contagious.
She’s rewriting the story, one act of care at a time. And every ripple she makes erases me.
I built an empire of malice and neglect. She’s building something smaller, quieter, stronger. My legacy was fear. Hers is connection. And from this perch, I can see which one endures.
That’s what really gnaws at me: not being turned to stone, not slowly washing away in the relentless rain—but knowing she’s unwinding the dark and ruthless nature that I taught this city.
Apply to make a difference as a caregiver for seniors: https://jobs.augusta.care/apply/seniors-helping-seniors-fort-collins-co?channelsource=Craigslist
