The other boys hated him for it. They had knuckles like scabs and boots held together with wire, and here was this creature who looked like he’d been polished by moonlight. They’d corner him behind the slag heaps and hiss, “Pretty Boy. Go on, cry pretty tears, Pretty Boy.” And he would. Not because he was weak, but because his tear ducts were, annoyingly, just as photogenic as the rest of him. Each teardrop rolled down his cheek like a tiny diamond.
“You’re lonely,” the tinker said.
“They say if you cry, bad things happen.”
Pretty Boy did as he was told. He sneaked into the old graveyard at midnight, planted the tear-seed in a patch of sour earth, and stood there until a cold drizzle began. He let the rain mix with a single, deliberate tear. Then he went home.
The strange part—the part that made folks cross to the other side of the street—was the luck. Or the un luck, depending on who you asked.