A shadow falls across the emerald wish-bud just as I finish coaxing a ripple of magic into its surface. I pause, my hand hovering, wings trembling with the hush that sometimes precedes change. The Tree breathes a little deeper, a shiver passing along its bark and through the moss at my feet. Something is coming—a presence that feels both familiar and strange, like sunlight breaking through clouds after a long, silver rain.
A new wish. Not just any wish; this one carries weight, a resonance that sinks deep into the wood, passing from branch to root. I feel it before I see it: a pulse in the air, a gathering hush among the other wishes. Even Elder Willow seems to lean in, his ancient trunk bending slightly, as if to listen.
Carefully, I search for the source. The magic pulls me toward a slender branch higher in the Tree, its leaves still gleaming with dew. I glide upward, the scent of sap and fresh petals swirling around me, until I spot it—a wish cocooned in a web of silvery threads, trembling as though afraid to be seen. It glows with a peculiar shimmer, neither bright nor dull, but shifting colors, never quite settling on any hue.
I reach out, my fingers tingling as they graze the trembling surface.
A vision spills into my mind. I see a man, older than most who come to the Tree, sitting alone in a small room. His hands are clasped on his knees, eyes closed, his breath a thread of hope and longing. The wish he’s left is not for himself, but for another: an old friend, a lost companion. It aches with the sharpness of memory, of time that cannot be turned back, only tended to with care.
This is no easy wish. It slips through my grasp, uncertain, its magic tangled and tight. I hum softly, a tune meant to soothe, and the cocoon shivers but does not open. I sense it needs something more—something I cannot give alone. Magic threads through the Tree, seeking balance, seeking help.
A sound from below startles me. Plian’s voice carries up, soft but urgent. “Pip? Are you alright up there?”
I hesitate, caught between the trembling wish and Plian’s concern. The air is thick, charged with possibility and the weight of the magic in my hands. Elder Willow’s branches sway, as if urging me to act, to decide how to approach this delicate, tangled hope.
For a single, pounding heartbeat, everything hangs in the balance: the wish, Plian’s love, my duty to the Tree. The cocoon pulses brighter, as if in desperate need, while Plian’s footsteps draw nearer, his worry brushing against the roots of my heart.
The moment stretches, gathering power, waiting for me to choose which thread to follow.