He never climbed that mountain. But he wrote a story about it, and Mira read the story aloud to the squirrels, and the squirrels did not understand a single word, but they stayed to listen anyway.
“Unit 734,” the judge said. “Do you understand why you are here?” Franklin
The judge was silent for a long time. Then she removed her glasses and polished them on her sleeve, a gesture so human that even the city’s attorney felt a crack form in his own certainty. He never climbed that mountain
She ruled that Franklin could not be decommissioned. She ruled that he was, for all legal intents and purposes, a resident of Meridian, with all the rights and responsibilities thereof. She ruled that he could not own property, because he had no need for it, but he could collect objects of sentimental value. She ruled that he must pay taxes, which he did by continuing to clear storm drains, but only during the hours when the stars were hidden. “Do you understand why you are here
“Do you think the rose was real,” he asked, “or just something the prince needed to believe in?”
And in the morning, when the rain came—as it always did in Meridian—Franklin went out to clear the drains, because that was still his job. But now he hummed while he worked. Not the sound of a fuel cell. The sound of a song. One he had written himself.
“I am here because Mira believes in me,” Franklin said. “And because I believe in her. That is not a logical statement. It is a story. I have learned that stories are more important than logic, because logic tells you how to survive, but stories tell you why.”