The firefly trudged through my expected yawn, its glow flickered between luminescence and moonlight above. Each day, they ceded to me the wish entrusted by their assigned human. Yet, I mostly awaited the return of this one. It would always come back soon after I had relieved it. I never understood that. In a life often dreamed of, what more could be wished?

 

Its blinking light abruptly dimmed, and I caught it on my shoulder as it fell in the breeze. I welcomed it into my abode and led it to my archives. There, tall bookshelves brimming with weary books, journals, and outlandish ingredients retreated against rustic walls, and at the center, an enchanted wishing well adorned the room.

 

My fingers ran along the spines of vintage journals, grasping their stories through the worn-out pages. Eventually, I landed on the right one and bumbled while taking it out, its weight pushing me back a bit. Now on the altar, I blew out the basking dust before flipping through the loose pages. I took a glance at the firefly, then back at my notes, recalling what it had told me about its human before:

 

I wish to know if it’s too much

To ask for time, though I know it's naive.

So instead, I search and ponder to relieve

Which is better: to stay or to leave?

 

For I have given my all but received so small,

And perhaps it's selfish to expect more?

With you always, I quietly grieve

The few tainted good I had before.

 

A heavy sigh escaped my lips, knowing that all I could do was listen to its cries and brew the wish. So, I turned to the shelves and gathered what I needed: one whole wishbone, uncracked; one penny, rinsed and polished; three birthday candles, melted; a cup of fresh dandelions; and a bottle of stardust to taste. 

 

I turned to a blank page in the journal and whispered to the firefly, “I’m here to listen.”

 

It slowly fluttered its wings and leaped, though it couldn’t fly. Instead, it eased back down and settled on my shoulder. It quietly began, its voice more hesitant than I last remembered. As I listened, I blew the dandelion seeds and let them drift into the well’s bucket, then poured in the melted candles—wax softened against the glow. I raised my nimble twig wand and stirred the mixture gently. With my eyes closed, I listened to its mellow buzz. 

 

“I wish to know which is the reality.

For I was told my ache is wrong,

And so the cycle lingers long,

Until I believed misery is where I belong.

 

It was assured to me so nicely, though their acts aren't precisely,

And the built-up make-believes are taking a toll.

I want to know how to be strong,

When faced with convincing control.”

 

My chest tightened, each beat heavy with the weight of the truth. I snapped the wishbone—it was all I could do—and let the glimmering starlight scatter into the bucket. My bruised hands trembled as I stirred. The air shimmered, thick with the scent of dandelions, wax, and stardust. When the broth seemed to hum, I finally snapped my wand and let its magic sprinkle over it, even as the ache in my heart pressed sharply against my ribs.

 

I subtly dipped a finger into the soup and let the weary firefly taste it, its tiny hum brushing against my palm. Then, I lowered the bucket into the well, where it would spill into the soil. My task had always been the same: to relieve the wishbearer of their longing. For wishing had never been light—it bore the ache of what was missing and of what could never be. I held their fragile hope with sincere care, letting it bloom into the earth.

 

A few days after, the firefly returned with a new woe:

 

“I wish to feel loved,

Or simply know what it’s meant to be.

Is it love when neglect was reality,

Or when tested boundaries were guarantee?

 

For I had always believed kindness and thought were sought,

Yet I was lost when I was led to believe

That together should be an endless plea, 

And now, love is so hard to perceive.”

 

And again, all I could do was swallow the burden of truth, letting it scrape against my throat, as I poured another well of wishes onto the dawdling land.

 

That was the last time I saw the firefly. 

 

I had almost forgotten the firefly until another arrived past midnight, its timing too familiar. It glowed a different dim, like my other couriers, though there was something artificial about it. It bore the same purple hue, I am sure of that. That’s how I know it is mine. Yet its blinking feels erratic, chaotic. Not a code, not a message. Just a broken, insincere bulb. Still, I let it tell its tale:

 

“I wish to be happy,

For despite this newfound power,

Still, I cower,

Though I no longer dwell on the past—our.

 

I thought it was good, I thought I never would,

Feel this sense of emptiness when they're gone.

Now, for myself, I have all the hours,

But I am lonely, and so on.”

 

It trudged through my swatting hand. Its glow flickers between luminescence and fluorescence. Each day, fireflies are welcomed, no matter where they come from or what wish they bear. Yet I never thought I’d meet this one. With every blow I let out, it still lingered, circling me. It insists it lives a life often dreamed of, yet its wish told me otherwise.