What would you wish for if you could only wish for someone else?
Natalie had wondered this every night since Grandma passed away three months ago, leaving behind a tiny wooden music box with a dancing ballerina inside. The box sat on Natalie's nightstand, its paint chipped and faded, playing a melody so soft it sounded like someone humming through a closed door.
"It grants one tiny wish each night," Grandma had whispered during her last visit, her wrinkled hand pressing the box into Natalie's palm. "But only if the wish is for someone else. That's the secret, little one."
Natalie hadn't believed it. Not really. But tonight, she wound the brass key anyway, watching the ballerina spin in her endless circle.
"I wish Mrs. Chen's cat would come home," Natalie whispered, feeling a little silly. Their elderly neighbor had been searching for Whiskers for three days, and Natalie had seen her crying on her porch that afternoon.
The music box glowed—actually glowed—soft gold light seeping from the cracks in the wood. Then it faded, and Natalie's heart hammered against her ribs.
The next morning, Mrs. Chen was beaming in her garden, Whiskers purring in her arms. "He just appeared on my doorstep!" she called to Natalie's mom. "Like magic!"
Natalie's hands shook all day.
That night, she wound the key again. "I wish Dad's back would stop hurting so he can ride bikes with me again."
Gold light. Soft music. And the next morning, Dad stretched in the kitchen without wincing for the first time in months.
