Waldemar the Raccoon and Mrs. Mümel and the Pond that forgets Wishes

More about Waldemar the Raccoon and Mrs. Mümel and the Pond that forgets Wishes

Waldemar had set out early, long before the first rays of sun. It was one of those mornings when the forest is silent, like an old book that no one opens anymore. The moss was cool beneath his paws, and the leaves didn't rustle, as if even the wind had decided to sleep. He followed a barely visible path that wound through thorns and ferns until he came to a clearing that wasn't on the map. There it lay—the pond of which people whispered. Not silent, but forgetful. A place where wishes weren't granted, but released. At the water's edge, someone sat. An old toad, who was said to have once seen a comet in a puddle. Her back was ridged like tree bark, her eyes golden-green and clear as polished amber. On her shoulder rested a tiny bell that made no sound. "You are Waldemar," she said, without looking at him. "And you are Mrs. Mümel," he answered reverently. She nodded. "It was me. It is me. It will have been me. Time is soft here. Wishes are too." Waldemar stepped closer. The water was pale, almost colorless. Not a single insect buzzed, not a single fish snapped. It seemed as if the pond's eye had stopped blinking. "I brought a wish," he said. "How old?" she asked. "Old enough that it's grown heavy." She raised one of her gnarled hands and pointed to a stone on the bank. "Put it down there. Don't let it fall into the water. Not yet." Waldemar placed his wish—a thought he had carried for so long that it no longer carried words—on the stone. And waited. "What happens to wishes here?" he asked quietly. Mrs. Mümel closed her eyes. "They dissolve. Not in the water. In the heart. The pond doesn't show you what you want. It shows you what you no longer need." Waldemar looked at the stone's reflection. It was strangely blurry, as if the pond had already forgotten him. And suddenly he understood. His wish wasn't a goal. It was a lump in the way. He had wished that things could return to the way they once were—that losses could be undone, paths retraced. But now, near this silence, he felt: Some paths must not lead back. They must grow. And growing means letting go. "And if I change my mind?" he asked. "Then drink," said Mrs. Mümel. "Then the wish will go, even without you." She dipped her lips in the water and drank. Not a sound. Not a gurgling. Just a breath, as if she had swallowed a piece of memory. Waldemar hesitated. Then he leaned forward, took the stone with the wish, looked at it one last time—and left it behind. Not in the water. On the moss. "I want to know who I am, not who I was." Mrs. Mümel smiled. A rare, toad-old smile. "Then the wish was fulfilled before you came." As Waldemar left, he felt it in his chest: a quiet space, as if something had made room for something new. No loss—only silence. And an echo that no longer responded.