The town elder declared it a relic of the old gods. But to Mateo, it was a miracle.
Elena finally looked at him. Her eyes were wet. “You cannot un-wish. You can only make a new wish. But each wish carves a little more of you away. Are you willing to lose yourself to save her?”
He carried the sphere to his studio, feeling a thrum of power up his arms. That night, half-asleep and drunk on cheap wine, he held the obsidian and whispered to the empty room: “I wish for a masterpiece. Something that will make the whole world remember my name.”
The world went white.
He held the sphere and made his third wish.
First, her fingers moved—just a twitch. Then her eyes tracked him across the room. One morning, Mateo found a single, real tear pooled at her stone feet. And he noticed something else: his own shadow was no longer his. It was taller, thinner, and its hands were always raised like hers.