The fisherman.

There once was a fisherman.

He fished at night on a quiet lake, carrying nothing but his gear and an oil lamp. One night, the sky was full of stars, the moon whole and bright, its reflection resting perfectly on the water.

From that reflection, he caught a fish.

A glowing white koi.

He knew what it meant. The stories were old, but clear: the one who caught such a fish was granted a wish. One wish. Anything.

But the fish had to remain alive.

So he placed it carefully into a red wagon filled with water and pulled it home beneath the stars. There, he bought a tank as tall as a refrigerator and filled it with clean water. The fish swam quietly inside, glowing softly, waiting.

Years passed.

The fisherman grew old. His cabin stayed warm. His nets stayed full. He sold what he didn’t eat and ate what he didn’t sell. Every night, the fish waited, patient and unchanged.

From his bed, the old man would sometimes watch it glow in the dark room.

One wish.

One night, as he rested, a sharp pain bloomed in his chest. He breathed slowly, calmly. He turned his head toward the tank.

“One wish,” he thought.

He had lived well. He had been lucky. In a raspy voice, barely louder than the hum of the lamp, he spoke.

“I wish for you to go back to the lake,” he said.
“You’ll be what I leave behind. Go back, and let yourself be found by someone else.”

The fish flared with light brighter than ever before. It dove toward the bottom of the tank, faster and faster—

And in a single flash, it was gone.

The tank stood empty.
The cabin fell silent.

By morning, there was nothing left in the house
but the memory
of an old man
who once held a wish
and chose to give it away.