**The Wishing House**
They rented a flat right in the heart of London.
“You like it?” he asked, barely managing to open the door for her.
The place was massive, absolutely stunning.
“Blimey,” she gasped, “this is incrediblelook at the view!” Her warm brown eyes sparkled with delight. “But it must cost a fortune?”
“Funny thing, not really,” he admitted. “An old bloke let it to me. Said he lives out in the countryside now, in an old cottage.”
“Whatever, I love it here,” she grinned, brushing off the details.
He left early the next morning. After coffee, she decided to meet her girlfriends.
Once he was gone, the unfamiliar flat felt oddly unsettling. A couple of times, she even swore someone was standing behind her, but she shook off the feeling.
Snapping a few selfies by the antique paintings, she headed out.
Her friends fawned over the photos.
“Bloody hell, that chandeliers gorgeous!”
“Look at these paintingswait, whos that behind you?”
She glanced at the picture. Sure enough, a faint outline of an old woman loomed over her shoulder.
“Come off it, thats just a trick of the light,” she laughed, though unease crept back in.
The next week flew by. Evenings were spent strolling along the Thames, eating ice cream, and walking homehome, a word that now felt right.
Rain trapped them indoors one weekend. They ordered pizza and watched old films, dozing off on the sofa together.
A thunderclap jolted her awake. Lightning flashed, illuminating an old woman standing before her.
Her husband slept soundly, but she was frozen, speechless.
“Well then, young missus,” the woman whispered, “how dyou like it here? Made a wish yet?”
“N-no,” she stammered, pressing into the sofa.
*What wish?* They had a good lifesteady jobs, even a studio flat rented out. The only thing missing was a baby, despite rounds of IVF.
Another thunderclap. The woman vanished.
Morning came bright and clear.
“Proper kip on the sofa, didnt I?” he said, frothing milk for coffee.
“Me too,” she smiled, brushing off the night as a dream.
“Love this place now. Feels like home.”
“Same. Dont wanna move.”
Their psychologist had suggested rentingfor a fresh start. This was their third try.
New Years Eve arrived.
“The old mans popping by later for the rent,” her husband mentioned.
“Bit odd, innit? Tonight?”
“Eh, hes harmless.”
The old man arrived with a cakeher favourite. They put the kettle on.
Snow fell heavily outside.
“Stay for midnight,” she offered suddenly. “No sense trekking in this. Be nice to have company.”
As Big Ben chimed, fireworks lit the sky. In the mirrors reflection, she saw the old woman againsmiling, waving, then fading into the sparks.
She smiled back.
And never saw her again.
**P.S.**
Years later, walking down Oxford Street, I bumped into an old acquaintance.
“Remember that couple who rented near here?” I asked.
“Course. Funny thingtheyre still there. And the old landlord? Lives with em now. No kids of his own, but he dotes on their little lad like a grandad.”
There you have it.
