The Lantern of Forgotten Wishes Long ago, in a valley where the mist curled like sleeping dragons, there stood a tiny village named Brindlebrook. At the edge of the village lived a girl called Mira, who was known for two things: her bright laugh and her terrible memory. She forgot chores, she forgot names, and once she even forgot where she had put her shoes while she was still wearing them. One evening, after a long day of misplacing things, Mira wandered into the Whispering Woods—where children were told not to go. But the trees didn’t scare her. They hummed softly, like they were telling secrets she couldn’t quite hear. As the sun dipped, Mira found a small silver lantern glowing on a stump. It shone without a candle, and inside it, tiny sparks of light danced like fireflies. “Take it,” said a voice behind her. Mira spun around, startled, and found an old woman wrapped in a cloak of woven moonbeams. “What is it?” Mira asked. “A Lantern of Forgotten Wishes,” said the woman. “Every spark is a wish someone made and then forgot. Keep it safe.” “But… why me?” Mira asked. The woman smiled. “Because you, child, know the value of remembering.” Before Mira could argue, the woman vanished like steam on a mirror. That night, the lantern tugged gently in Mira’s hands, pulling her from house to house. When she stopped in front of a baker’s cottage, a spark burst out, floated in through the window, and landed on a sleeping boy’s pillow. The next morning, the boy woke with a gasp—remembering his dream of becoming a musician and rushing outside to play a wooden flute he had long abandoned. The lantern guided Mira again and again. A forgotten wish to paint. A lost dream to travel. A promise to forgive. One by one, the sparks returned to their owners, and Brindlebrook began to change. People walked lighter. Laughed louder. Argued less. Their hearts seemed fuller, as if something missing had finally returned. But one spark remained—dimmer than the others, barely glowing at all. “Whose wish is that?” Mira whispered. The lantern pulsed weakly and led her to the edge of the Whispering Woods. There, sitting on a fallen log, was the moonbeam-cloaked woman. “That is your forgotten wish,” she said gently. “My wish? But I don’t even remember making one.” “That is why it needs returning.” The spark drifted toward Mira, settling softly against her chest. Warmth flooded her heart—warmth Like for next