(Or, Some Words as Experiment)
The short story is a migration to a destination. It is conflict and more conflict that moves to crisis and resolution, which is the destination of the short story. There is a necessary tension between the vehicle and its cargo, between the vehicle and the road that follows in its wake. The passengers are character change. Their luggage is the epiphany.
In a short story about a granddaughter and grandmother, for example, the conflict is evident from the first sentence of the story: They had quarreled all morning, squalled all summer. Several pages later, the resolution is apparent in the last sentence: The girl walked close behind her, exactly where she walked, matching her pace, matching her stride, close enough to touch her granny's back where the faded voile was clinging damp, the merest gauze between their wounds.
This part is easy.
To get you there.
Fiction is a nomad. A pilgrim through the reformations of faith it takes to get through the overall ride-of-life which the art-of-the-short-story is.
You see the variablenesses already.
But the structure of a short story is its stableness (stasis). The four unchanging elements of the short story seem to be conflict that leads to character change that leads to resolution that leads to the epiphany.
For instance (continuing with the granddaughter/grandmother story):