Fox Brew

I saved a dying White Fox and kept it through the whole winter.

When spring came, it ran away, leaving only a tuft of white fur on the threshold.

Three years later, a man appeared at the door of my wine workshop.

He had amber eyes, and with a single sip, he tasted the faint sourness in my wine that even I had almost missed.

I asked where he was from.

He said, “We may have met before. You forgot.”