Tree of wishes, branches of wonder. Dark, gnarled fingers reaching, grasping at wishes. Colourful like a parade they dangle. Thin strings dancing in a wind felt upon no mortal flesh. She approaches the tree, mind of nothing, halo of gold. Cloaked, a figure that vanishes at the murkiest corners of your eyes, perception failing you.

It leans, frozen with inaction. A structure, held between the states of life and death, half-standing half-falling. Purgatory. Hands, not gnarled, but dark, nonetheless, pluck a wish, it’s tattered remains through which she can see the means to its end. Babbles turn into whimpers as the kite turns into ash. Such an infantile wish stood naught a chance against cynical flames.