The Lantern of Forgotten Wishes

In the crooked alleyways of Drowmere, where fog hugged the cobblestones and secrets whispered between broken shutters, twelve-year-old Elian rummaged through a junk merchant’s cart. He wasn’t looking for anything special—just something to trade for a warm meal. But under a moth-eaten rug and a rusted birdcage, he found it: a lantern, cold and dull, yet oddly humming.

It was small, shaped like a teardrop, with silver vines etched into its frame. Its glass panels shimmered with colors Elian couldn’t name. He held it close, and for a second, the world felt quiet. Peaceful. Whole.

"Two coppers," the merchant rasped.

Elian gave him a look. "I have one."

The man squinted, then nodded. "Take it. But remember—some things light more than fire."

That night, Elian lit a candle inside the lantern. The moment the flame sparked, the room dimmed, and golden smoke spiraled out, forming a shimmering figure. A woman, transparent and glowing, smiled at him.

"A wish has been remembered," she said gently. "You may keep it."

Before he could speak, she vanished, and in his mind bloomed a memory—not his, but vivid and real. He stood, sword in hand, leading a rebellion through snow-drenched woods. He knew how to fight. He felt the pain of leadership, the fire of courage. He could move like a warrior now.

The next day, Elian dodged bullies like a dancer. He stole an apple from a merchant’s stall without being seen. The skills from the memory stayed with him.

That night, he lit the lantern again.

More smoke. More memories. He learned to play the lute like a master. He recited poetry in a language he’d never heard before. He spoke with charm, with wisdom.

But by the fifth wish, something felt… off.

He forgot his mother's laugh.

Her face blurred when he tried to picture it.

He rushed to the attic, where he kept her photograph—only to find it gone. No, worse. It had never existed. The neighbors swore they’d never seen him with anyone.

Terrified, he didn’t light the lantern that night.

But the hunger for more—the power—was louder than his fear. He wanted to protect himself. He wanted to be someone.

He lit it once more.

The memory this time was of a brilliant healer. He learned to fix wounds, feel pain, ease suffering. But he no longer remembered his own scars. His own name began to fade, just a little, like smoke curling from the edges of a page.

Panicked, Elian ran back to the old merchant. But the cart was gone. No one remembered a junk seller ever being there.

Days passed. Elian stopped using the lantern, but the damage lingered. He had the skills of a hundred people—but the memories of a stranger. His heart felt full of lives he never lived, and yet so hollow.

Until one day, a girl named Mara found him in the alley. She was chasing a cat, her cheeks red with laughter.

“You look sad,” she said.

“I think I’m disappearing,” he replied.

She didn’t laugh or run away. She listened. And after many visits, many stories, something strange happened. When she spoke of her memories—climbing apple trees, making her mother cry from laughter—Elian began to remember his again. Not all. Just flickers.

Warm bread. The way his mother used to hum.

The lantern still sat in his attic. He thought about smashing it. But instead, he locked it in a wooden box and buried it near the river.

"Some things light more than fire," he whispered, as dirt covered the last glimmer of silver.

Now, he walks Drowmere not as a thief, but a storyteller. He teaches orphans to play the lute, to dance, to speak with courage. All without magic.

And every time he hears a new laugh, or shares a tear, another piece of himself returns.