Breglio the Imp and the Wishing Well

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Hidden between fern clumps and dormant root humps, where the moss makes the ground soft as dreams, lies a well that isn't one. No water glistens in its depths, no bucket hangs from its arm. Instead, words float within it—wishes spoken, thought, whispered—emerging like fireflies from the darkness. The well is called the Whispering Well. And it belongs to an imp. The imp's name is Breglio. He's barely bigger than a stove mushroom, wears a coat of collected dandelion seeds and a little hat that looks as if someone had folded it from a blackberry leaf. He is the wish-bringer. Every day, Breglio sits on his mossy stool and listens to the depths. Not all wishes may be answered—some are too difficult, others too easy. And still others belong to those who don't even know what they're asking for. Today, a strange wish descended. It wasn't loud. No "I do," no "please." Just a whispered "If only..." Breglio leaned over the well's edge. The wish was warm and brittle, like bread left in the oven too long. And yet there was something real in it. A wish never meant for himself. "A wish for someone else," murmured the imp. "The rarest of all." He rummaged in his vest pocket and pulled out a tiny vial mingled with dewdrops and feather dust. "One drop of this," he whispered, "and the wish reveals its heart." He let the drop fall. Suddenly, the depths lit up—not brightly, but like the flicker of a memory. From the shaft rose a small thread of light, curling, stretching, forming. An image appeared: a child in the rain, taking off his coat to protect a wet bird. A wish without words. Breglio swallowed. "All right," he said finally. "Just this once." He opened a secret compartment beneath the well's rim – inside lay a coin as old as the first sunrise. Whoever throws it, their wish will be granted one day, but never in the way they expected. The imp took the coin, blew on it, and let it spin. It didn't fall. It rose. Higher and higher, until it disappeared into the mist. Somewhere, far away, a child suddenly heard a bird singing that had long since fallen silent. Breglio smiled. "One wish less," he said. "And one miracle more." Then he sat down again and waited. For the next wish, the one that never asks about itself.