One autumn, a terrible drought struck the village. The river ran dry, and the crops withered in the fields. The villagers were terrified, but Lisa merely complained that the dust was ruining her shoes.
The traveler sighed. "The fruit grows to match the gratitude of the heart that receives it. To a thankful soul, even a bruised apple is a feast. To an ungrateful one, a feast is but dust." lisa the ungrateful
"It is too small," Lisa scoffed, turning it over in her hand. "And it has a bruise on the side. Can’t you make a perfect one?" One autumn, a terrible drought struck the village