The Five-Year Wish

Shantivan was a place where stories seemed to grow on trees, quite literally like the leaves on the ancient banyan tree in the town square. The town, famous for its “Festival of Stories”, attracted book lovers, dreamers, and wanderers who found themselves lost in its charm.

A vibrant market thrived at the heart of the town. The vendors shouted about their fresh guavas, and children tugged at balloons. The air was filled with the tantalising aroma of freshly baked bread mingled with the sweetness of jalebis sizzling in giant pans. The market buzzed with the chatter of vendors and customers, replicating the hum of life rising and falling like a melody.

However, one shop remained untouched by all the commotion.

An old little shop tucked away at the end of the market lane. Unlike the bustling shops surrounding it, this place seemed to exist in a bubble of stillness. The weathered teakwood exterior bore the scars of time, and its windows exuded a timeless charm.

Rumours had it that the owner of the shop granted wishes.

Most people walked past it, uninterested. “Just a tourist trap,” they’d say. But not Aditi.

Aditi had grown up in Shantivan. As much as she loved the stories of the town, it was her grandmother’s tales on drowsy afternoons that stayed with her. As she grew, the story of the old shop lingered- refusing to fade,

“The man there,” her grandmother had whispered once, “he doesn’t age. He’s been here longer than this market itself. And he grants wishes – but only if you’re ready for them.”

She believed it with all her heart when she was a child. Growing up, it began to feel like just another bedtime story. Yet something about that shop always pulled her in.

Aditi was happy in Shantivan, but her career was dwindling. Her café, The Tea Quill, was a sinking ship. Each failed attempt to revive it chipped away at her confidence. If nothing was done, the café would shut down. Her dream, once vibrant with endless possibilities, was succumbing to a slow, inevitable death.

One quiet evening, Aditi could no longer bear it. The day had been utterly frustrating, and her grief was palpable. Hopelessly, she found herself standing before the shop’s weathered door. Before she could talk herself out of it, she pushed it open. The door creaked. The smell hit her first—wood, jasmine, and a faint hint of something metallic, like coins… or magic.

Shelves filled with jars of glittering powders and strange objects lined the walls. And then, he appeared. A man of indeterminate age. His face bore the lines of countless lifetimes, and his deep, dark eyes sparkled with secrets from another time. He was neither welcoming nor unkind—his presence a paradox of comfort and unease. “You’ve come for a wish,” he said, calm and sure. Aditi hesitated. “I… don’t know if I believe in this.”

He smiled—a faint curve of his lips that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Belief is irrelevant. What matters is your willingness to take the risk.”

“What’s the catch?” she asked, her voice faltering.

“Five years,” he said simply. “You will live your wish for five years. After that, you must pass it on—or else, there will be consequences.”

“Pass it on? To whom? And what are the consequences?”

“You’ll know what to do when the time comes,” he said with a knowing smile.

It sounded absurd. Tempting. Dangerous. Aditi hesitated. She had spent so much of her life playing it safe. Five years sounded like a gift. Or a trap. But what did she have to lose?

“I accept,” she said, surprising even herself. He handed her a vial filled with golden liquid. “Drink this and speak your wish,” he instructed. Then, just like that, he was gone. Or was he? His words echoed long after he disappeared.

Aditi glanced around. The air felt heavier, as if the shop itself were alive, watching her. Time moves more slowly inside. She couldn’t shake the feeling that the space was holding its breath, waiting for her next move. Without thinking too hard, she closed her eyes and whispered, “I wish for everything I touch to turn into success.”

The moment the liquid touched her lips, the world shimmered and shifted. When she opened her eyes, everything felt… different. Brighter. And suddenly, so was her life. Since that fateful evening, success came swiftly. Her struggling café became an overnight sensation. The transformation of The Tea Quill was nothing short of miraculous.

Aditi poured her heart into every corner of the café. Surprisingly, every effort brought spectacular results.

The bookshelves displayed her favourite titles, thoughtfully curated across genres. The menu was inspired by her grandmother’s cherished recipes, and the walls bloomed with handwritten notes from visitors who shared a story, a dream, or a fleeting moment of connection.

Book lovers and tea enthusiasts flocked from across the globe to experience The Tea Quill’s charm, nestled in the serene heart of Shantivan. Word spread fast. Authors launched their books there. Aspiring writers held workshops. Strangers became lifelong friends over steaming cups of chai.

Her inbox overflowed with invitations. She graced magazine covers, her name celebrated in literary circles. Every day was magic. Aditi was living the life of her dreams. But with success came forgetfulness.

The deal she had made with the strange man faded into a distant memory. The years of triumph felt eternal until now.

As the five-year mark approached, a quiet unease crept into her dreams. Night after night, she dreamt of faceless crowds. The air buzzed with excitement, voices she couldn’t quite hear. But always—the man in the black suit. Standing still in the chaos. His back turned, his presence daunting. And each time he began to turn toward her, she jolted awake, heart racing.

On The Tea Quill’s fifth anniversary, Aditi hosted a grand celebration—a storytelling session with her favourite authors, gourmet delicacies from her café’s journey, and a room brimming with collaborators and friends

But amid the revelry, the atmosphere shifted. She saw him. The man in the black suit, standing in the doorway. His commanding presence mirrored her dream. And then he turned. Those piercing eyes—impossible to forget. As their gazes locked, he turned and walked away. A chill ran down her spine. The truth surfaced.

Aditi followed, feet moving as if bewitched. The party’s noise faded. The streets blurred. She found herself back in the old shop. The scent of jasmine and old wood enveloped her.

“It’s time,” the man’s voice echoed. Aditi nodded. “What happens now?” “Your wish has run its course,” he said. “Now you must pass it on. Otherwise…” “Otherwise?”

“You can continue this life—but you’ll relive the past five years, over and over, till your last day. No new dreams. No change. Just the same loop. And you’ll remember it all, in vivid detail.”

“And if I pass it on,” she asked, “will I lose everything?”

His expression softened. “You’ll be guided by your own magic. You’ll have the freedom to dream again—and the strength to make it real.”

Aditi hesitated. But the idea of living the same years repeatedly—it no longer felt like a gift. “And who do I pass it to?” “Someone who needs it, like you once did.”

“I think I know who,” she whispered. He handed her a new vial. She took it—it felt heavier than it should.

At the door, she glanced back. The man’s face had changed. He looked… free. Liberated, as if a curse had lifted.

The party had dwindled by the time Aditi returned. Her eyes found Rhea—a young woman who visited the café often. Always alone. Always writing.

Something about her reminded Aditi of herself—the same quiet determination, the same weight of untold dreams. She approached her.

“Rhea, can we talk?” The conversation was brief. Aditi handed her the vial. “This is for you. Trust it.”

Rhea stared, wide-eyed. The vial glowed. The air shimmered. “What… what is this?” she whispered.

Aditi only smiled and walked away.

In the days that followed, Aditi felt a shift within. New ideas stirred. Dreams she had never dared to voice now took root. Months later, an elegant envelope arrived at The Tea Quill. She sipped her latte by the window and opened it.

A smile broke across her face. The next day, she flew to Mumbai. That evening, Aditi sat in a grand theatre. The screen lit up with the title: “Between Two Worlds”, a film by Rhea Singhania.

As the story unfolded, pride bloomed in Aditi’s chest. It wasn’t just the brilliance of Rhea’s work—it was knowing she had helped ignite that flame. The true meaning of “Pass it on” became clear. She leaned back, closed her eyes, and heard his voice one last time: “The fire within you still burns, Aditi. Tend it well.”

PS: This piece was originally written and published in the July 2025 edition of Unicorn Magazine.

PS: This post is a part of the Blogchatter Half Marathon 2025

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