The Wish Thief

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Once upon a time, in a forgotten valley somewhere within the lands of Areeott, there was a village like many others. Its people lived their quiet lives as best they could, drawing water from stone wells scattered throughout the countryside. The wells were common, simple things—just old circles of moss-covered stone, quietly existing, necessary, and unnoticed.   Yet among these ordinary wells lay a secret so old and quiet that no one remembered how or when it began. It was never openly discussed, only felt: a soft tension in the air whenever villagers passed by, a quickened step after sunset, an averted gaze as buckets were drawn.   On a moonless evening many generations ago, a girl named Rhenna stood by one of those quiet wells. She clutched a silver coin, a piece of precious Arin metal, bright and cold as moonlight. Her heart held a secret wish, one she had never shared with another soul, one too fragile to trust to mere words. Believing in the gentle magic she'd heard of in stories, Rhenna dropped her silver coin into the well. She waited, listening carefully, expecting a splash, a whisper—some sign her wish had been heard.   But no sound rose from the water.   Disappointed, she turned away and walked home, unaware that something had shifted in the moment the coin vanished. Over the days and weeks that followed, a strange emptiness grew within her, as though a piece of herself had quietly slipped away. At first, she did not realize what was lost, only that something felt missing. Eventually, she understood—her wish itself had vanished. She could not remember what it had been, nor why she had longed for it in the first place. The dream was gone, leaving behind a cold hollow where warmth and longing once had lived.   In the quiet corners of Areeott, others began to feel the same subtle loss. A farmer who dropped silver into his well no longer remembered his dreams of a peaceful life. A grandmother who wished for health could no longer recall the laughter of the grandchildren she once adored. No one spoke openly about it. No tales were shared around hearths or firesides.   Travelers who passed through sometimes noticed the strangeness of Arin people, who guarded their silver coins jealously around wells and politely but firmly refused to explain why. Visitors would laugh, toss copper coins into the water, and tease the villagers' superstition. But if they looked closer, they saw no smiles in return—only quiet eyes and careful silence.   They say if you lean close to any well, deep enough to see your reflection clearly in the black water, sometimes you can see eyes—soft, patient eyes, shining like silver, gazing up from below. Waiting, as they always have.   And sometimes, on moonless nights, when the wind falls still and the stars refuse to shine, villagers swear they can hear faint laughter rising from the well—quiet, gentle, satisfied—dreaming dreams stolen long ago.  

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