I recall that around the time I was 12, we had a green parrot with a broken wing. We lived in a flat on the 7th floor of a tall building, surrounded by other tall buildings and no trees. We did not have a balcony, so it could not have flown in. Still, the little green thing was there and it ate out of our hands.
Then one day the parrot’s wings grew back and it flew away. Or maybe it died, and my mother ‘said’ its wings grew back and it flew away.
If I ask where the parrot came from, I might also inadvertently find out the truth about where it went.
This is the truth, but also an analogy.
Dare I ask.