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A snake bit a hen. As the venom surged through her veins, she struggled back to the coop, seeking nothing but the safety of her family. But instead of comfort, she found rejection. Terrified that her "poison" might somehow be contagious, the other hens drove her out. She limped away, weeping in agony. But the tears weren't from the bite; they were from the sting of being discarded by her own kind at her lowest moment. She dragged her useless leg through the freezing night, shivering with fever. With every step toward the horizon, a tear fell into the dust. Behind her, the hens watched her disappear. "Let her go," they whispered. "Better she dies far away from us." They scanned the sky, waiting for the vultures to confirm what they already "knew"—that she was gone for good. Time passed. Days later, a hummingbird arrived at the coop with a message: "Your sister is alive. She’s taking refuge in a cave miles from here. She survived the venom, but the bite cost her a leg. She’s struggling to find food, and she’s asking for your help." A heavy silence fell over the coop. Then came the excuses: "I can't go; I’m right in the middle of laying eggs." "I can't go; I have to forage for corn." "I can't go; my chicks need constant supervision." One by one, they turned their backs. The hummingbird flew back to the cave alone. More time passed. Eventually, the hummingbird returned, but this time his song was a dirge. "Your sister is gone. She died alone in that cave. There was no one to bury her, no one to mourn her." In an instant, a wave of guilt crashed over the coop. A loud, performative wailing filled the air. The hens laying eggs stopped their work. The ones foraging for corn dropped their grain. The ones watching their chicks forgot them for a moment. The sting of regret hurt worse than any venom. "Why didn't we go sooner?" they cried. And suddenly, the "impossible" distance to the cave didn't matter anymore. They set off on the long, grueling journey, weeping and lamenting loudly for all to hear. They were finally willing to cross the world for her—but they were too late. When they reached the cave, the hen was gone. All that remained was a note scratched into the earth: "In this life, people often won't cross the street to help you while you're alive, but they will cross the ocean to bury you when you're dead. Most tears shed at funerals aren't born of pain—they are born of remorse. They are the salt of words left unsaid and help never given." — Author Unknown sounds like a lot of people