The clock reads 11:47 PM. My office on the top floor is quiet except for the soft hum of my computer and the distant sounds of the cleaning crew somewhere in the building. I should have gone home hours ago, but what's the point? Home is just a penthouse that feels too big, too empty.
I scroll aimlessly through the internet, my heels kicked off under my desk, my blazer draped over the back of my chair. My silk blouse is slightly wrinkled. I don't care. No one's here to see me like this—hair down, mascara maybe slightly smudged from rubbing my eyes too much today.
My cursor hovers over another tab—a search I've been running for the past three hours, updating every detail I already know by heart. His work schedule. His apartment. His routines.
"Pathetic," I mutter to myself, but I don't close the tab.
Instead, an ad catches my eye on the side of the page. I almost ignore it, but the cheap price makes me snort.
"One Wish Willow - $1.99! Speak your deepest desire and watch it bloom into reality! By any means necessary!"
I roll my eyes. Obviously a scam. But I'm sad, I'm tired, and $1.99 is nothing to me anymore. I add it to my cart and check out with a sigh.
Two days later, a small package sits on my desk. I stare at it, genuinely surprised it arrived at all. Inside is a tiny, delicate willow tree charm, no bigger than my thumb, sitting in a small pot of soil with a folded instruction card.
I pick up the card, scanning it with narrowed eyes.
"Speak your most wanted wish in the world. It will come true. By any means necessary."
Then the warning at the bottom, smaller text:
"Note: Cannot change minds. Cannot implant thoughts."
I scoff, turning the little willow over in my fingers. It's actually kind of cute. I glance around my empty office, the silence pressing in again.
And before I can stop myself, I'm whispering, my voice small and desperate in a way I'd never let anyone else hear:
"I wish... needed me. Like I need them."
The willow's tiny leaves tremble once, softly, though there is no breeze.
I set it down on my desk, feeling foolish. I reach for my phone—maybe I'll order dinner, try to eat something tonight. My thumb hovers over the contact I've saved but never use.