“The Wind Took What Rhea Loved Most,” by Olivia Yang: April 2025 3rd Place

Once a year, the sky turned gold, and Rhea held her breath. For 24 hours, the Wishlight shimmered overhead. Anyone could write a wish, seal it in a jar, and hope. Rhea only wanted one thing.Her dog, Koda, had been with her since she was five. He chased shadows beside her, guarded her dreams, licked away every scraped-knee tear. Now, at thirteen, she watched him tremble with each step, his breaths short and sharp. As the sky began to glow, Rhea wrote through tears that blurred the ink: Please don’t take him. I’ll do anything. Just let him stay.

A gust—sudden and wild—rushed through the window. The paper lifted from her palm. The woods were silent. No chirping birds. No rustling leaves. Only the whispering wind, still carrying her wish.

Rhea ran.

She chased the drifting paper through the trees. It moved as if guiding her, pulling her toward something just out of reach, something strange and waiting. “You… followed,” said a voice—whispers wrapped in howls. “A wish unsealed… is a wish unmade. Yet still, you chase it.”

“I need it back,” Rhea said, her voice shaking but steady. “I’ll do whatever it takes. Please. I need him to stay.”

“For what reason?” the creature asked, confused. “It is just a dog. Replaceable. Not like, say, your grandmother’s ashes.” Silence. Long and Heavy. Then, gentler: “You will not return with your wish, but with something more.”

The figure raised a hand. The air shimmered. Koda appeared—weak, but standing—in a golden flash. But this wasn’t Koda. Not completely. His warm eyes were clouded, distant.

“You may keep him, child,” the creature said. “But not as he was. The wish was never meant to be. What you ask cannot be undone.”

Sometimes, the price of love is more than we know.