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White Star
Author: Hari Navarro, Staff Writer She slides the ornately embossed …
The Wishing Well
Author: Ashwini Shenoy
The first time, I think it’s a dream.
You and I are holding hands. The night-blooming jasmine spreads its fragrance, sweet and soothing. The fruit trees sway in the twilight. The birds chirp and butterflies swirl. Our garden, our labor of love, built plant by plant, stands witness.
But you’re serious, anxious. I can tell.
“I leave tomorrow,” you say.
The war’s calling you. The country’s calling you. Duty’s calling you. But what about me?
I grip the coin in my palm, the edges digging into my skin. The wishing well stands behind me, ancient and quiet. Nana once told me it grants only the truest desire. I close my eyes, my heart hammering.
I wish for time to freeze.
I flick the coin into the well. But when I hear the soft splash, I know it wasn’t just the coin.
My engagement ring is gone. A gasp escapes my lips. Without thinking, I lunge forward, gripping the cold stone edge, and I jump. The water drowns me, swallowing my breath, my fear, my existence.
Then—
I am standing in the garden again, waiting for you.
*
The second time, my heart swells.
I watch you from across our garden, your silhouette dark against the dying light. The wind carries the scent of rain, the fragrance of the jasmine is heady. The trees lull into stillness. The butterflies are gone but the birds stay.
When I step closer, you turn around, but your stern eyes don’t meet mine when you speak.
Your grip is strong. Too strong. I know you’re scared. Your fingers press into my skin as if anchoring yourself to something unseen. Your eyes are fixed on the distance. You inhale deeply.
“I leave tomorrow.” Your eyes are sad.
I know what to do. I clutch the coin tighter. Make sure the ring is intact.
I flick the coin into the well.
Again, the coin remains. Again, the ring is gone.
Once more, I jump.
The water is cold. An ounce of regret.
Then darkness.
I’m standing in the garden again, waiting for you to turn.
*
The third time, my smile fades.
I don’t reach for your hand this time. But the ring commands me to stay.
The jasmine-scent feels heavier, suffocating. It is drizzling. I sense a storm brewing somewhere. The birds are now gone.
You speak. I mouth the words with you.
“I leave tomorrow…” It’s a plea.
I turn before you finish. The well waits for me. I’m tired.
I don’t bother checking the coin in my palm. I know what’s awaiting. I flick it, hear the splash, and jump.
For a split second, before the darkness claims me, I wonder if I’m the one who’s leaving now.
*
The fourth time, panic settles.
I don’t wait for you to speak.
I count as I walk to the well. Five steps. A breeze. The stench of jasmine. I could map the entire scene in my sleep.
Maybe I’m asleep. Maybe I will never wake.
The coin drops. My ring falls.
I jump before I hear the splash.
*
The fifth time, I know I’m trapped.
I’m scared.
Not of losing you. Not of you leaving.
But because I don’t care anymore.
Your voice is noise now, part of the wind, of the garden that is neither alive nor dead. You are speaking, but I am already moving, reaching for the well.
Not to stop myself. Not to change anything.
Just to let it finish.
The well glistens.
The coin flicks.
The ring falls.
You watch.
I jump.
The darkness welcomes me home.