A fantasy short story about wishes. A stranger visits a fountain famous for its wish-granting qualities. 

They say the fountain grants wishes, though who they are and when they said this remains unknown. Still, every day the tourists come and throw their coins and make their desperate pleas. I want a promotion. I want a family. I want fame. The wishes sink to the bottom of the fountain with the coins, and rust.

She comes on a cold day in October, when the leaves have abandoned the trees and trail across the streets instead. Her footsteps do not stir the leaves, or the dirt beneath them. She walks with purpose, and that purpose is the fountain. The tourists gather, and she moves among them, a leaf blowing past on the wind, noticed, but barely.

Once upon a time, they made their pleas to her.

Now she rusts like the wishes at the bottom of the fountain, her skin mottled by age, her piercing eyes now dulled. They say the fountain grants wishes: she sees no evidence of this, only the rotting tributes that had once been offered to her. When did they start putting their faith in things, not her? Too long ago. Perhaps she noticed, perhaps she was too tired to act, perhaps she encouraged it. She doesn’t remember anymore.

She lowers herself onto the side of the fountain and looks out over the bustling square. If anyone notices her, it is only fleetingly. Their attention wanders. There are colourful stalls and the smell of cinnamon and the sparkling fountain with all it promises.

I wish my husband would care more.

I wish I could go to the concert.

I wish my boss appreciated me.

So many selfish wishes, pushing against the fountains base with the weight of the sins they represent. Once upon a time, they had wished for peace. And she had granted it, glimpses of the world they could have if only they would work for it.

But people are shallow, and greedy. They want peace but wage war. They ask for favour and offer rusting coins in return.

She will keep ageing. She won’t die. Her kind weren’t made for that. But perhaps she will sleep by this fountain, which represents all she had once been, and perhaps the fountain will grant her wish for rest.

“Let her wake up. Please let her wake up.”

She looks up at the voice beside her. A young man, clutching his coin so hard his knuckles are white. He releases it with a sigh and as it hits the water she hears his wish.

I wish my daughter would wake up. 

A car, a scream, a shriek of alarms. She listens to the sounds, and she smiles. Yes: they are selfish, and greedy, and ungrateful, but then they are only human.

When the man leaves, she reaches into the fountain and plucks his coin from the cold water. After this, she will rest. But first, perhaps one more wish.

The coin gleams a brilliant gold it had never been before she touched it. She holds it to her lips, and breathes on it until it fades away into the cold autumn day.

And in a hospital, miles away, a little girl opens her eyes.