At the edge of Sycamore Bend, Avery sat on a moss-covered rock and waited for the first flicker of light. It came slowly. One firefly, then a hundred, their glow pulsing like a quiet heartbeat through the trees.

She’d heard stories from her grandmother about this place, how wishfire gathered here every midsummer’s eve. Make your wish before midnight, Gran used to say, but only if your heart’s clean enough to see the truth. Avery never believed it until tonight.

The air rippled. The fireflies rose higher, weaving themselves into the shape of a door. Behind it shimmered a meadow she didn’t recognize. The stars were growing like flowers, rivers flowing backward, and the sound of laughter drifted in the air.

A figure stepped through, wearing a crown made of lilacs and frost. “You called me,” it said, voice like wind through cracked glass.

Avery swallowed hard. “I didn’t mean to.”

The figure smiled. “Then perhaps it’s me who wished for you.”

When dawn came, the woods were quiet again. Only the soft scent of lilacs remained, and a single glass bottle on the rock, and inside it, a tiny firefly flickered, burning with the light of another world.