The Imp Breglio and the Wish Forger

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They say wishes can be lost—like buttons, dreams, or the sound of a name no one calls anymore. Most never return. But sometimes... a whisper remains. Deep in the forest of Witherthorn, where the fog never lifts and the ground murmurs stories, the wishing well stood still. Not a flicker rose. Not a drop shone. Only Breglio sat there—the little imp with the dandelion coat—and stared into the silent depths. "One is missing," he murmured. "One I never spent." For that was his gift: He knew every wish that had ever sunk into that well. Wishes of children, the elderly, the lost, the brave. Some were tiny, barely audible. Others glowed like fire-packed sparks in dark times. But now one was gone. Not granted. Not blown away. Simply... stolen. He took his crowbone flute from his coat pocket and blew a single, curved note. The forest listened. Shadows moved. And then she stepped out of the mist: the Wish Forger. Her name was Mircilla, her form vague as smoke over ice. She wore a dress of glittering, lying light, her fingers ending in fine ink pens. Her gaze was sharp as a needlepoint. In her hand: a small bottle, inside the lost wish—encased in false words, wrapped in beautiful illusion. "You took it," Breglio said softly. "I saved it," she whispered, "from disappointment. Wishes ruin when they come true." "It wasn't yours." "But I can make them more beautiful than they were ever imagined. I give them shine, form, poetry. You—you simply make them... happen." The bottle began to tremble. The wish inside was faint, but still alive. Small: just a wish for a song. A single song that no one else knew. Intended only for an ear that had forgotten to listen. "It belongs back," said Breglio. "It's not for stories. Not for glamour." Mircilla smiled. "And if I don't give it? What will you offer me, Imp?" Breglio reached into his coat pocket. From it, he pulled out a nutshell, carefully sealed with twilight resin. Inside: a breath of wind that had never blown. The world's first unspoken wish—a thought that had never dared to speak. Mircilla's fingers twitched. "A wish that was never born...?" "Exactly. The purest of all. Unsaid, unformed. Only feeling." She was silent for a long time. Then she handed the bottle back, slowly, like someone who knows a spell is lost. Breglio carefully placed the wish on the edge of the fountain. A soft sound sounded—like the first note of a song that had slumbered too long in the heart. The fountain shimmered briefly, as if recognizing the wish. "He will be heard," said the imp. "Perhaps not today. But soon." Mircilla vanished without another word. All that remained was the scent of forgotten ink and the faint echo of a dissipating glow. Breglio sat back down on his stool. Above him, the first glowing words began to rise—slowly, hesitantly, like beings that had been silent for a long time. And somewhere in the forest, an invisible bird began to sing. A song no one yet knew.