story about a guy trying to make a homunculus and he uses a fertilized chicken egg and it’s, like, a really weird and sickly chicken when it hatches and he thinks he’s responsible for that but he isn’t. and he takes good care of it. short story for you. go vividly imagine it
You aren't supposed to love them. But I cannot help myself. I look at the little wet thing in my hands and all I see is my son. It is, categorically, a failure, but I cannot help myself. It is as if my body is possessed as it makes a warming box for him--I cannot call him "it."
He is so small. He is dry now, and he hops about his box making little noises. I talk to him, about the world. I tell him how handsome he is, how much he is loved. The word failure I keep locked up tight in a box in my chest. He will never hear it.
He is eating and drinking, growing stronger. He makes louder noises when he cannot see me, I cannot bear to be away. He is big enough, I let him wander around out of the box. He follows me around, asking me questions in his language. I try my best to answer.
My colleagues tell me that lead can be transmuted into gold, that through an unknown process of divine purification even the most vile can become holy. They search for it endlessly, this magical cure for imperfection, and as they speak all I can hear is my son's garbled words. I see his little misshapen face staring up at me with his bright eyes. I feel, again, that feeling in my chest, of a forgotten box gathering dust.
I will not tell them I have discovered it.