"Daddy, when I grow up, I want to be a writer just like you!" She looked up at him in all seriousness. Her pale blue eyes bright with innocence and hope of child, yet the lingering sadness of one who'd seen more than her share of pain.

"Don't be silly Sarah, you have the whole world at your little finger tips. Why would you want to be a poor writer like me?" He managed to ask between his wheezing and labored breaths. His deep coughs echoed through the near empty room. He held his ragged sleeve over his mouth, trying to avoid another painful coughing fit, gazing down at his daughter as he did so with crinkled kind eyes. Eyes that are soft and gentle. Ones that are tired, worn, and had seen the world through darkness.

"But daddy, I won't need the whole world. I can just write it! I can write us our own heaven daddy. We'd have a wondrous feast to eat every night! Wouldn't that be great daddy? Just think it. A roasted chicken! How the juices would fill our mouths,warming our tummies as it slid down. Corn on the cob! With warm salted butter that would leave us licking our fingers for days. Of course we'd have the finest milk to drink too daddy. It would be like sweet silk, quenching our thirst. The desserts daddy! Can you imagined the desserts we could eat? Such rich sugary delights that would leave us with a tummy ache for months. And the smells daddy! A writer mustn't forget to describe the smells. I'm sure it would smell like heaven. Don't you think daddy?" Her little hands waved in the air animatedly as she acted out her story. The worn out sleeves hung off her little frame, flapping around as she moved.

"I'm sure it would, love, and it would have to be true if you wrote it. You'd make a marvelous writer. I would be stuff for days from your writing alone." He spoke, his voice ragged from his sickness. He'd wanted it to come out teasingly, instead of huffs and puffs. His eyes dropped and his chapped lips turned downwards in a frown. Worry and concern filled him. Not for him, but for his daughter. He wasn't afraid of death. He'd seen it over and over. And witnessed it in every form and every stage. Some old, some young. You see a lot when you live in the shadows; when you are an outcast. The homeless, the forsaken, the outsiders; it doesn't really matter what you call us. We are who people pretend don't exist so they could live in denial with their happy little lives.

No, He worried for his daughter. Who'll be left alone in this world. He'd worry of what his death would do to her. Of the hard lessons life would teach her. She still held on to hope, love, and life. She was still innocent. Still a child. A child who'd be force to grow up before her time. Her eyes will see so much sorrow, deaths, lies, and crime. They'll see how the world really worked in the shadows, and under darken skies. He'd only hope that she'll remember the good. Prayed that she won't let bitterness take over her heart. And that she'd be strong through it all. A dying father's dream.

The little girl looked up at her father with concerned eyes. She was young, but knew more than she should for a child of her age. She crawled off the dingy stained carpet and into her father's lap, looking around at the room. There was nothing in it save for a few others huddled together for warmth.

"Don't be so silly daddy. We wouldn't just be stuffed from my writing, we'd be warm too! We'd have a roaring fire. One that would make us rosy red from the radiating heat. We'd be mesmerize by the twirling, dancing, burning flames. We'd watch the colors play in the fire. The oranges, reds, and blues all fighting for their chance to out shine the other in the light. It'd entertain us for hours daddy." Her soft gentle voice could be heard in the still of the room.

"I'm sure it would, love, I can feel the heat now. A true mesmerizing waltz for us to watch. One of which only the burning flames could perfected." He leaned his head back against the old rickety wall as another coughing fit came over him. With ragged deep breaths, he was able to regain control. Though the pain was agonizing, he tried to hide it from his daughter. She'd always been so brave, so strong. He'd admire her for that. He needed to be just as brave and strong for her. There was no need to make her life harder.

He ran his hand down her tangled, brittle brown hair. He'd wished he'd been able to give her more. A warm bath, and a comb to brush her hair to tame her mess of locks. A warm meal. Instead he was left to suffer ever time he looked at her hard rock shrunken in stomach. He'd even settle for a proper glass of milk to give her before bed. Not anything that was spoiled or left out too long; one that was cold and fresh. He wanted to give her little frail body what it needed. He'd felt like he'd failed her over and over again. There was no greater pain for him than to be so helpless that he'd have to beg for work, money, food, something, anything, anything that would help take the bite away from starvation. But nobody wanted to help a sick homeless man. Nobody wanted to get their hands dirty. They turned their noses up in disgust, having judged the book by its cover.

He closed his eyes as a tear escaped down his cheek. He'd seen the sunset through the cracked windows, watched how the light slowly faded away as the moon rose. The moonlight replaced the darkness around them, and the bright stars darted across the night sky one by one. His breathing became more labored, more desperate, and less frequent. His hands around her slacken as the last coughing fit wracked his body.

"Not only that, daddy, but we'd sleep on clouds! Like the angels daddy. They'd feel like big white fluffy cotton balls. Softer than sheep's wool. No hard lumpy beds for us daddy. We'd go sleep with the angels." Sarah felt her daddy stopped moving behind her back. The steady beat of his heart no longer pounding in her ear. Tears fell down her cheeks as she gave her daddy one last kiss goodbye. Her lips soft against his rough face.