The Candle That Made Wishes Come True

Violet lived in a crooked little cottage at the edge of Willowbrook Village, where the cobblestone streets zigzagged like ribbons and the flowers grew in spirals instead of straight lines. Everything in Violet’s world was wonderfully wonky, but there was one thing that troubled her: she was terribly, awfully, magnificently shy.

She wanted to invite the neighborhood children to play, but the words stuck in her throat like butterscotch candies. She wanted to sing songs in the village square, but her voice came out as quiet as a mouse’s whisper. Most of all, she wanted to make friends, but her feet seemed glued to the ground whenever anyone came near.

One purple-skied evening, while Violet was helping her grandmother tidy the cottage, she discovered something peculiar in the attic. Tucked between a box of rainbow-colored yarn and a trunk full of giggling memories (which tickled when you opened it), she found a small wooden box with silver hinges shaped like crescent moons.

“Grandmother!” Violet called down the winding staircase. “What’s this?”

Her grandmother’s head poked up through the attic floor—she always took the fastest route, even if it meant climbing through the ceiling. Her silver hair sparkled with dust motes that danced like tiny fairies.

“Ah,” Grandmother said, her eyes twinkling like stars reflected in a pond. “The Wishing Candle. I’d forgotten all about it.”

Inside the box sat a candle unlike any Violet had ever seen. It was swirled with colors that seemed to move—midnight blue melting into golden sunrise, with streaks of lavender and pearl dancing between them. The wick was silver and hummed very softly, like a lullaby sung by the wind.

“It’s beautiful,” Violet whispered, running her finger along its smooth surface.

“It’s more than beautiful, my dear,” Grandmother said, sitting beside her with a soft thump. “It’s magical. When you light this candle and make a wish, the wish comes true. But—” she held up one wrinkled finger, “—there’s something important you must know.”

Violet leaned closer, her eyes wide as teacups.

“The candle only has enough magic for three wishes, and the wishes only last until sunrise. After that, everything returns to exactly how it was before.”

Violet turned the candle over in her hands, watching the colors swirl and dance. “Why would someone make wishes that don’t last forever?”

Grandmother smiled, a secret sort of smile that meant she knew something wonderful that Violet hadn’t figured out yet. “Sometimes, my little violet bloom, we need to try something on for size before we know if it truly fits. The candle helps you practice being brave.”

That night, after Grandmother had kissed her forehead and tucked her in beneath her quilt of singing stars (it really did sing, very softly), Violet sat up in bed and looked at the candle on her windowsill. The moon painted silver stripes across her room, and somewhere outside, an owl asked “Who? Who?” over and over again.

Violet struck a match—carefully, just as Grandmother had taught her—and touched it to the silver wick. The flame sprang to life in a shower of sparkles, burning in all the colors of a sunset and a sunrise mixed together.

“I wish,” Violet said, her voice trembling slightly, “I wish I could be brave enough to make friends.”

The flame grew taller, whirling like a tiny tornado, and suddenly Violet felt different. Her heart felt bigger, like it had been filled with warm honey and sunshine. The nervous butterflies in her stomach transformed into hummingbirds of excitement. She couldn’t wait for morning!

The next day, Violet practically danced to the village square. She saw three children playing hopscotch by the fountain—Oliver with his carrot-red hair, Sophia with her collection of colorful ribbons, and tiny Marcus who always wore his cape, even in summer.

“May I play?” Violet asked, and the words came out as clear as bells!

“Of course!” they chorused, and just like that, Violet was playing and laughing and having the most wonderful time. They played until the sun began to set, painting the sky in orange and pink.

But as Violet walked home, something felt strange. The brave feeling was fading, like sugar dissolving in tea. By the time she reached her crooked cottage, her old shyness had crept back, wrapping around her like a too-tight sweater.

She understood now—the magic had worn off.

The next evening, Violet lit the candle again. This time she wished, “I wish I could sing beautifully in front of everyone!”

Again, the flame danced and twirled, and Violet felt the magic fill her up like fizzy lemonade. The following day, she sang in the village square, and everyone stopped to listen. Her voice rang out like silver bells, and people clapped and cheered. It was wonderful!

But when the sun set and night fell, her voice returned to its usual quiet whisper. The magic was gone again.

Now Violet had only one wish left. She sat in her room, holding the candle, watching the colors swirl and dance. She thought very hard about what to wish for.

She could wish to be brave again. She could wish to sing beautifully again. She could wish for something entirely new—maybe to fly, or to be the fastest runner in all of Willowbrook Village, or to never feel scared again.

But then Violet remembered something. When she’d played with Oliver, Sophia, and Marcus, even though the magic had worn off, something hadn’t disappeared. She could still remember how to play hopscotch. She still knew the games they’d taught her. And most importantly, she remembered that they’d said “of course” when she asked to join them—they’d wanted to play with her!

When she’d sung in the square, even though the magic was gone, she could still remember the song. She still knew how her voice felt when she let it out instead of holding it in.

The magic hadn’t lasted, but the memories had. And memories, Violet realized, could teach her things.

That evening, she lit the candle for the third and final time. The flame blazed up in a spiral of colors so bright they painted her whole room in rainbow light.

“I wish,” Violet said slowly, thinking carefully about each word, “I wish to remember that I can be brave, even without magic.”

The flame exploded into a fountain of sparkles that rained down around her like stardust. They swirled around Violet, dancing through her hair, tickling her nose, and settling into her heart where they glowed warm and steady.

Then the candle burned down completely, melting away until nothing remained but a small pool of rainbow-colored wax and the memory of its light.

The next morning, Violet woke feeling… different. Not magically brave like before, but something else. Something quieter but stronger, like a seed that had been planted in her heart and was just beginning to grow.

She went to the village square, and her heart beat fast and her hands felt sweaty, but she walked up to Oliver, Sophia, and Marcus anyway.

“Would you like to play again?” she asked, and her voice was quiet but clear.

“Violet! Yes!” they shouted, and they played all morning.

Was Violet still shy? Yes, sometimes. Did her voice still feel small sometimes? Yes, absolutely. But now she knew something important: being brave didn’t mean never feeling scared or shy. Being brave meant doing things even when you felt scared or shy.

The magic had taught her how, and the memories helped her remember.

That evening, as Grandmother tucked her into bed, Violet told her everything.

“So the wishes didn’t last,” Grandmother said, “but what they taught you did.”

“Yes,” Violet said, snuggling deeper into her covers. “The magic was like training wheels on a bicycle. It helped me learn, but I don’t need it anymore. I can be brave all by myself.”

Grandmother kissed her forehead. “That, my dear, is the real magic. The kind that lasts forever.”

As Violet drifted off to sleep, she thought she saw something glowing softly on her windowsill. The pool of rainbow wax had hardened into the shape of a tiny heart, and it glimmered in the moonlight, as if to say: The magic was inside you all along. You just needed to remember.

And in her dreams that night, Violet flew through a sky full of singing stars, and she sang along with them—not because of magic, but because she wanted to, and that was enough.

The End

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