The Miracle Dealer

There was a stone, ordinary-looking and yet full of magic, that promised to make the carrier’s dreams come true. It was heavily sought-after, for many wanted the power to control their futures and shape their own fates.

But the stone was a sinister little thing, for while it promised to make dreams come true, it soaked up the power of those who wielded it. Sooner or later, it corrupted the wielder, and no matter how good their heart might have been, how good their intentions, it all got warped into something truly awful.

And yet, not even that knowledge stopped people from wanting the stone. They all believed they could overcome the stone’s vileness, that they were more stalwart, more pure hearted, and wittier than those before them.

The stone overcame them all, and so a trio of wise, powerful folks came up with an idea. To find one person who didn’t care about their future, who had no ambitions, no dreams, and no hope.

And they had come to your door.

Your first thought, in a moment like this, probably should not have been what came to your mind. It was rather disrespectful, after all, considering the wise elders were held in high regard for their minds and skills.

Well, fuck you too, you thought, half incredulous and half apathetic.

You leaned against the doorframe with one shoulder and eyed the group of three wizened people before you. Why was it always the elderly who came with big quests or brought important items that had to be hidden away to unsuspecting folk?

Also, if you didn’t care about the future, shouldn’t that mean you didn’t care about the stone, either? They might as well give it to someone else, someone better suited than you.

There was this little girl across the street who had an acorn necklace and played in puddles. She always sat very still until even the last stray cat felt safe enough to eat what she had brought them. Maybe the stone should go to her; she at least gave a shit.

You debated arguing or refusing, but your disinterest won out in the end.

"Sure," you answered, holding out a hand for them to plop the stone into. You weren’t scared of it, especially since it looked utterly unremarkable. If you tossed it into a river, no one would be able to tell it apart from the other rocks.

The three wizened elders, the smartest of their magic circles, exchanged grave looks. You waited until they were done with their silent communication, and their leader stepped forward.

"We entrust you with the Stone of Possibility. Never use it, and always hide it," they said, voice solemn and carrying the sort of undertone that gave their words an air of great importance. "Give it to no one, no matter how noble their hearts, how pitiful their tale, or how silver their tongue."

You couldn’t help but imagine a genderless person sticking out their tongue, dripping with mercury.

"Sure," you repeated. You kind of wanted them to leave, you weren’t particularly great with strangers, and you had been busy eating a very delicious, still oven-warm tin of cookies.

The elder did look slightly miffed at your calm response but finally handed the stone over with a soft sigh. You didn’t miss the longing way all three stared at the gray lump cradled in a dark purple, faintly glittery cloth. None of them had touched it directly.

"Many foes will seek your door," the second elder spoke up and – wait, that hadn’t been part of the deal! – "Do not let them leave victorious. This stone may seem like a miracle at first, but it is a vile and deeply cursed thing of ruin."

Maybe you should toss the rock into a river and tell it Godspeed. Might be interesting, too, to see what sort of chaos would come over the world once someone found it.

Humanity did always grow kind of stagnant if their lives didn’t get shaken up. Like yours, now that you thought about it.

"Sure." You grabbed the edge of your door, stepping back and inching it closed. You really were done with this conversation. "Bye."

The last thing you saw were the irritated and unhappy faces of the elders. You waited until you heard the tell-tale pop of displaced air as they teleported away, and then you stared down at the stone again.

You were tempted to shake it like a snow globe and see if anything would happen.

"You’re going to be trouble, aren’t you?" you mused and looked around for any kind of semi-decent hiding spot.

Your small home was lovely in your eyes, maybe a little cluttered here and there, but it was warm and cozy, and you loved it.

After some deliberation, you set the stone down on your table and went outside to grab a cracked jar you had intended to throw away.

Putting the Totally Very Special Magic Stone into it, you felt satisfied with this solution. For good measure, you even hid the jar in the cabinet below your sink among cleaning products and a bottle of faintly-glowing pink alcohol.

There. Done.

You washed your hands and returned to your life, soon forgetting the stone you had been entrusted with. On your tenth day as unofficial guardian, however, a stocky stranger knocked at your door.

He was decked out in weaponry, and his face was grim in a way that told you he had lost everything and clung to his hatred and vengeance with all he had to stave off the grief.

"Are you the guardian of the stone?" he asked, voice gravely and raspy. He looked like he needed a good night’s rest and at least five long screaming sessions in the woods.

"Sure," you said, and after a moment of thinking you pointed over your shoulder. "The door to the garden is in the kitchen. If you can find the stone before sundown, it’s yours."

He blinked in surprise then nodded gravely, shoulders straightening. "I shall pass your trial."

With those words, he trudged past you, though you noticed that he made sure to wipe off his boots first. Maybe you should have told him to take them off. Oh, well. What’s done was done.

You followed him into the kitchen and watched him step into your garden. He began to pluck at the immediately visible stones, turning them over in his rough hands.

After a long moment, you started baking while listening to music, and the stranger kept searching. The hours passed, and you brought him some tea and cookies until, finally, the sun set and night fell.

He sat in your utterly-destroyed garden, and you felt irritation at your ruined work, but that feeling slid away again when you took a closer look at the stranger.

He had his knees pulled up, and his face was hidden in his hands, his shoulders so tense you were sure you could have used them to crack open the very stones he had tossed about like a tantrum-throwing toddler. You sat down beside him and stared up at the night sky.

"You will not give me the stone, will you?" he asked, voice soft and muffled by his palms. You heard a cut-off sob, and his voice was even softer now. "I just want to lay them to rest."

You pressed your lips together and looked away, your gaze landing on an unremarkable small stone nearby. You picked it up and reached out to grab his hand, putting the stone into his palm.

His red rimmed eyes widened, and you ignored the tear tracks down his cheeks, the tremble in his lower lip, the desperate hope.

You curled his fingers around the simple, utterly normal stone. "Vow to bring it back," you said, trying to sound as grave and important as the elder who had gotten you into this mess, "after fulfilling your dearest dreams."

"I will," he choked out, gripping the stone tightly as though afraid it was going to grow legs and scuttle away like a crab. "Thank you."

You said nothing, just grabbed his elbow and pulled him up. You tugged him inside and made him sit down for a meal and some calming tea, and you listened to his story, how he had lost his clan, his husband and son and needed to take down the vile bandits who had done it.

"And thanks to you, I will succeed," he said, stone securely hidden within one of the pockets of his coat. He left with a respectful bow, and you cleaned up, more than aware of the real Stone of Possibility in your broken jar.

You opened the cabinet and stared at the jar. Then you reached out and poked it. "Don’t send more people to my door."

You went to bed after mopping the floors, and you decided to put the whole thing out of your mind. Until three days later when a tall, thin woman with black hair and sunken eyes and grayish skin knocked at your door.

"The stone," she whispered, and you got the faint impression that she had already died once before. Why she was alive, still, was anyone’s guess. You were no expert on magic, but she seemed to have her own will, at least. "May I ask for it?"

You really should go look for a river to toss the stone into. "Go through the kitchen into the garden," you told her after a moment, stepping aside to let her in. "If you can find it before sundown, it’s yours."

Her eyes widened slightly and she nodded, carefully skirting around you, keeping her spindly limbs tucked close as though she wanted to make sure you wouldn’t feel offended at her presence.

Her steps were whisper-quiet, and you stood in your kitchen once again, watching a stranger sift through your still-mostly-destroyed garden. You had put the plants back in their proper place, but you hadn’t gotten around to doing more.

You busied yourself and brought her slices of cake and tea around noon, and when night fell and she didn’t return, you stepped outside again.

She was kneeling on the ground, hunched over, and the only reason she didn’t look like she was deep in a prayer was the fact that her face was buried in her hands, her shoulders trembling and hitching as she cried.

At least she had left your plants where they belonged, even if the rest of the earth was churned up worse. She had even dug a little beneath the foundation of your home.

"I-I just wanted to live," she sobbed out in her soft, quiet voice when you stepped up to her side. "I’m s-sorry."

You closed your eyes and lifted your face to the sky before you had to exhale heavily. Bending down, you picked up the nearest ordinary stone and crouched at her side. She flinched when you reached for her hand, pulling it back enough to press the stone into her cool palm.

"Bring it back, promise me that," you said, not bothering with making your words sound important this time. You weren’t good at pitching your voice, anyway, "once you regain your life."

She sniffed and then sobbed hard enough that she couldn’t speak, nodding frantically. You handed her a handkerchief and led her inside, sitting her down for dinner and tea.

She told you how she had been killed and resurrected by a necromancer who wanted undead, magical children. How he had been killed by mages a few years ago, but she had remained even after her tether to him had snapped.

You sent her on her way with a wrapped parcel of food, and she bowed, standing outside your door. "You have a kind heart," she said. "May you be blessed at all times."

You waved her off, and as soon as she was gone, you cleaned up your kitchen.

You crouched by the cabinet again, opening it and poking the jar once more, with a little more insistence this time. "Rude," you told it. "Stop."

You had a feeling the stone wasn’t listening. Or if it was, it clearly didn’t care.

You went about your life, and people kept coming, knocking at your door. You were approached by a threatening rogue first, and another day, a beggar kneeled at your feet. You sent them all into your garden with the same task: find the stone before sundown.

You found them in the dirt as night fell, desolate and despairing, and even the rogue’s shoulders had slumped, all that threatening energy gone.

You pressed a stone from your garden into their palms and pulled them up and fed and watered them, listening to their tale.

The rogue was a banished princess, tortured and lost, and she just wanted to save her country and its people from her power hungry, tyrannical uncle. As she left, she apologized softly for threatening you.

The beggar had lost his family early and had been handed shitty hand after shitty hand. He vowed to fulfill his dream of building a tavern which turned no one away.

There would be a warm hearth for the homeless and the urchins and food for their bellies. He’d make sure to have space in his attic so that no one had to freeze come winter.

And then the most dangerous of visitors appeared at your door. You knew who he was, of course. Warnings about his person were pinned on every town board, and cities had spread news about his bounty far and wide.

The necromancer who was rumored to soon become a lich king if people didn’t stop him. A man so ridiculously powerful he could turn you into a pile of ash before you even noticed his presence.

"Greetings," he said with an empty smile, the sort of smile you had given people before you had realized the futility and stopped. "I hear you’re in the business of giving away magic stones?"

In hindsight, giving a miracle stone to everyone might not have been the brightest idea. Then again, you didn’t regret it.

"Which stone do you mean?" you asked, deciding to play along. You had lied so much already, all your life really, telling people what they wanted to hear and letting them believe a dirty garden stone had the power of changing their life, that it didn't seem to matter anymore. "I used to own a couple."

"Such as?" he asked, and he was still smiling. Empty and dangerous, and his eyes were cold.

You shrugged. "Stones of power, stones of fortune, stones of luck, take your pick."

"Ah," his voice was softer now, a quiet realization filling his words. "You are a crock."

"Sure." You didn’t care about his opinion, just like you didn’t care about anyone else’s opinion. You liked your quiet, gentle little life. At least then, no one told you that you were wrong, that you weren’t enough.

"But you do have the real stone," he mused, looking past you as though you had suddenly turned into a piece of uninteresting furniture. "Where have you hidden it?"

"There is a trial to get it," you said, leaning your shoulder against the doorframe.

You weren’t really scared of him. If you were gone, you were gone. You wouldn’t leave anyone behind who would miss you or mourn you. No family, no pets, nothing.

Even your home would soon belong to someone else, your kitchen filled with another person’s baking, new hands tending to your thoroughly-abused garden.

"The mages hid the stone so it can only be found by passing the trial," you added.

You were talking out of your ass, but to your utter surprise, the necromancer believed you after staring you down hard for a long moment. Or maybe your apathy over your future and resulting fearlessness had sold your lie convincingly.

"Tell me," he demanded, and you told him the same thing you had told everyone else.

You accompanied the necromancer to the kitchen and watched him step into your garden, fancy robes billowing as he walked with purpose.

You watched as he, instead of dirtying his hands directly, began to sift through the earth with his magic, pulling out stones one after another to examine them.

You thought about the stone in the jar beneath your sink and wondered once if there was a way to find it without having to touch it. Apparently not, or people wouldn’t keep falling for your fake trial.

You began to bake out of habit, and the necromancer looked briefly surprised, the expression quickly wiped away when you brought him scones and tea.

He was polite enough to say thank you, and you saw that he put each plant back after uprooting it to search beneath.

As always, night fell, and you stepped outside to see the necromancer standing in churned earth. His face gave nothing away when you stopped beside him, and he stared ahead, but not even his pride could hide his troubled mind. His empty smile was nowhere to be seen.

"Have I failed?" he asked, then laughed hollowly. "I? Who fails at nothing? The perfect mage, for once I cannot do something?"

You eyed him, and his hands curled into fists. "Tell me," he said. "Was there any way for me to pass this trial?"

"Sure," you said because that was the truth. They all could have started tossing your home until they found the jar and the stone, but all of them believed you, and furthermore they believed in the trial.

He blinked and inhaled sharply, held his breath then exhaled. "I see." His hands loosened, and he tipped his head to look up at the stars. "I guess fate gave me my answer, then."

"Answer to what?" you asked because he was the first one to not outright talk about what he wanted.

He was silent for a long moment, and his voice was soft as he answered, "Have you ever felt – no, have you ever known that there is something fundamentally wrong with you?"

"Sure." You weren’t like other people. Quiet and taciturn and apathetic. So apathetic, in fact, that wise magic wielders had decided to give you a powerful stone because you were so broken not even ancient magic could fix you.

"I wanted to feel something," he whispered. "I just wanted to feel…"

"Good enough?" you said mindlessly before you could stop yourself. The necromancer twitched, not quite a flinch, but enough of a muscle spasm to tell you that you had somehow hit the nail on the head. "I get it."

He turned his head to look at you for the first time since stepping foot in your garden. You met his eyes as he searched your gaze, and he seemed to find what he was looking for.

"You really do," he whispered. "I see."

You looked away, then, and stepped aside to pick the prettiest, least dirty stone. You motioned for his hand, and when he curiously gave it, you placed the stone in his palm.

"That’s the real trial," you said, lying once again, but your voice was as steady as always, so it sounded believable. "You need to be able to tell me what you truly want."

His fingers curled around the mottled gray stone. "You’re a crock," he said, but there was a glint in his eyes. A wary kind of hope. "You’ve given everyone a stone, haven’t you?"

You turned around, motioning for him to follow. To your surprise, he did. You didn’t bother to answer this time as you gestured at your table and began to serve dinner. He either would believe you or wouldn’t; as long as he didn’t find the real stone, it didn’t truly matter.

But he kept hold of the stone you had given him, and you could see that wary hope clinging like a stubborn weed. He wanted to believe you, he wanted your words to be true.

You sat down once the tea was done, and he pocketed the stone as he began to eat. Slowly, bit by bit, he told you about his life.

How he had been born a talented boy who had learned to wield magic early. How his masters had pushed and pushed and pushed and nothing had ever been enough. How he had been drafted into war before his eighteenth birthday.

How he had broken the codex of magic when he had brought his best friend back to life after he had been slain in battle. How he had then slain his superiors when they had tried to put him and his friend down.

Ever since then, he had been a necromancer, breaking the codes and laws of magic whenever he pleased. It was this disregard of rules and regulations that had earned him a bounty that kept growing.

When you accompanied him to the door, he stopped and looked back at you. "Why did you not use the stone for yourself?"

You blinked, then shrugged. "I didn’t want to."

Only, you kind of did, deep down. Just a little. Just to see if it could make you right, could make you fit in, could make you wanted. If it could really be the sort of miracle that made dreams come true while feeding on its user.

The necromancer didn’t smile this time, but he huffed a soft noise. "You are a liar."

With those words, he disappeared, and you were left staring at the empty space he had occupied a mere second before.

You were a liar, weren’t you? You lied about the stone, handed out false hope like gold-painted copper coins, and you had lied to everyone growing up, pretending to conform to their expectations.

You cleaned up and went to bed, lying awake for a long time. With a sigh, you closed your eyes and once again let go of the idea that you would ever be something special, someone remarkable. Besides, you liked your life; at least this way, you weren’t constantly disappointing people.

To your surprise, the necromancer kept showing up then and again. He no longer knocked at your door but sat at your kitchen table when you shuffled inside after once again fixing your garden. You talked and complained about people and, sometimes, just enjoyed a quiet cup of tea.

More people came, each with a story and a wish, and you found them all kneeling in your garden come night. You did the same with all of them: gave them a stone of yours, fed and watered them, and listened to their tale before sending them on their way.

You even went and dug up stones from the nearby river, making sure you weren’t disturbing the little critters living there, so you wouldn’t run out of stones to hand out.

Soon, you heard stories, first of a beggar aiding a traveling lord and being rewarded a large enough sum to build a tavern. Of no homeless folk ever going hungry in that area again and local abandoned children living safely in the tavern's second story rooms.

You could see the kids, sometimes, playing in the yard behind the tavern. They helped with planting vegetables, faces no longer thin and their clothes were simple and second-hand but warm and clean.

Next, you heard of a far-away war, the fall of a tyrant, and trade growing stronger with the neighboring country as the months passed.

You heard of a kind and just queen who genuinely loved her subjects and set out to right the wrongs committed by the previous king.

You heard of the bloody end of a bandit group, and people celebrated that night in the newly-built tavern, glad that the road to neighboring towns and villages was safe once more.

You saw the families of the bandits' victims rejoice and cry and pray at the local temple for their lost loved ones. You saw more traders pass through, happy to visit now that it was safe.

Your necromancer friend spoke of meeting a walking corpse and befriending her. As the days passed, he grew more and more animated and happy as he talked about his new friend.

She had quickly become his roommate and got along marvelously with his undead best friend.

As winter passed and you filled a box with gloves of different sizes, so people could keep digging in the frozen earth, you watched him fall in love for the first time in his life.

The former beggar, to your surprise, came to visit you first. His face was glowing with pride and happiness, and he wore simple but warm clothes.

There was a deep compassion within him, a kind of gentleness that knew no pity and almost brought you to tears when you met his eyes.

"Thank you," he said, voice soft as he pressed a rough little garden stone into your palms, closing your fingers around it much like you had so many months ago, "for giving me this chance. I promise I will not waste it."

"Sure," you found yourself saying, dumbfounded.

You were half-tempted to tell him it had all been a lie, that you had only handed the stone over because you had felt sorry for him, and that it hadn’t been his fault that you weren’t allowed to give the stone to anyone else. That the stone was evil and corrupt in the first place.

But you kept your mouth shut and invited him to dinner. Afterwards, he told you to visit anytime you wanted, that your meals and drinks would be on the house.

You promised to drop by from time to time, and you realized that you meant it. You would visit because he genuinely wanted you to.

After he left, you stared at the stone he had brought back. For a moment, you thought about tossing it into the garden again, only for your hands to place it on a bit of empty space on your bookshelf.

The warrior came next, no longer armed to the teeth but in hunter’s garb, and while there was grief in every line of his face, his heart was lighter.

"I come to uphold my end of the bargain," he said, holding out the stone you had given him out of pity. You accepted it, and his hands closed around yours, warm and callused.

"Thank you," he whispered with such feeling it made your throat tight, "for allowing me my vengeance."

You didn’t tell him the truth, either, and invited him to dinner, listening to him as he spoke of his husband and son, of his neighbors and family. The people he had lost but could remember with love once more.

He left, promising to bring you game whenever he visited your town and pledging that he’d rebuild his life now.

You put his stone beside the other one and stared at them for a long moment.

The stones weren’t special. These people could have picked a random one anywhere they liked and would have gotten the same result.

But, well, the difference was probably that they believed you had really given them magic. And in return, they had walked forward, grabbing their chances as they presented themselves, unafraid and with both hands.

Your home remained as busy as ever with stone-seekers, but now more people stayed in your life. You visited the tavern as you had promised and found yourself coming back again and again. The former beggar was always happy to see you and always had stories to share.

The warrior-now-hunter visited every so often and helped you cook as he spoke of the cabin he had built, of the new neighbors he had befriended.

The queen came after two more seasons had passed. She arrived in a gleaming carriage, dressed richly as royalty always was, and when you opened the door, her grin was blindingly bright and roguishly fierce.

She still carried that edge of danger, a cutthroat readiness, and the same clear-eyed gaze for betrayal she had shown you when she had arrived a year ago to claim a better future.

"A queen always keeps her promises," she said, pressing the gray garden stone into your hands, her gloved fingers squeezing yours. "Thank you from the bottom of my heart. I know we were strangers when we met, but you are a friend to me and my people now. You will always be welcome, and if there is anything within my power I can do, do not hesitate to ask. I will be forever in your debt."

"Sure," you said then frowned and tacked on, "No, that’s nonsense, you owe me nothing. Do you want dinner?"

She laughed and agreed, and after she had left again, you found an emblem made of metal and engraved with gold on your kitchen table.

Proof you were a friend, a hero, of her country and of the royal family. You hid it beneath your sink beside the jar and put her stone next to the other two on the bookshelf.

More people returned after that, bringing back the garden stones you had given them so they would stop crying, so they could carry on, so they’d find the strength to look forward and reach for better futures, unafraid and hungry.

You told none of them that everything had been a lie and that it had been their own actions which had turned things around for them.

You were still, somehow, surprised when the necromancer and his girlfriend visited you, both taking your hands to press their stones into your palms.

"I always thought I had to return to the way I was to truly live again," the undead woman whispered with a smile, her other hand entwining with the necromancers, "but I was wrong. I am alive, and I can live however I like. Thank you."

"I shouldn’t have doubted you," the necromancer said with a wry smile. "Even if this is not the stone of legend, you did give me something." His fingers gave yours a gentle squeeze. "I found what I was looking for when I least expected it. Thank you, my friend, truly."

Oh. You hadn’t had a friend before. You had hoped, of course, but you wouldn’t have dared to assume. No one had wanted to be your friend in the past, and while your neighbors were always cordial, you hadn’t gotten invited to dinners or gatherings or anything of the sort.

You tucked their stones into the pocket of your apron, and they stayed for dinner without you having to ask. You listened as they talked and laughed, and they promised to bring their other undead friend around soon, the one the necromancer had risked everything for.

"He’s been eager to meet you," the necromancer said with a chuckle as they helped you clean up.

You hummed in understanding and ducked out for a moment to put their stones on the bookshelf. There was barely any space left even after you had pulled out some books to stack on the small table beside your armchair. You couldn’t help but stare at the collection of stones for a long moment, three dozen by now, all proof of fulfilled dreams.

"You know, I noticed something curious," the necromancer said, startling you with his sudden presence. He leaned against the doorframe to your living room, and he looked at the stones, as well. "People don’t come here for the Stone of Possibility anymore, did you know that?"

No, you hadn’t. A knock at your front door interrupted whatever he was going to say next, and he waved his girlfriend to him, both ducking out of view while you opened the door. To your surprise, the three wizened elders were back.

"Apologies for disturbing you so late," the leader said with a polite dip of their head. You returned it without much thought. "We have come to collect the stone we put under your care. We found a spell to seal it away, banishing it from our world."

Well, that was useful. While you had to admit that you had grown used to strangers seeking you out, your poor garden would welcome it if people stopped digging.

"Sure," you said and went to get the jar, the three wise ones following you inside.

Their faces were complicated when they saw where you had hidden it and in what container. You handed the cracked jar over, and the leader opened it to peer inside, their companions crowding close to do the same.

All three gasped sharply, and you startled, a sudden alarmed, cold lurch gripped your stomach. Was something wrong?

"How?" the leader whispered, eyes wide and hands trembling faintly. "How is this possible?"

You felt a familiar presence appear behind you, the necromancer leaning over your shoulder, one hand pressing reassuringly against your back.

The wise ones all startled when they saw him, but whatever was going on, it had thrown them so much that their responses were a muddled mess of half-shouts and half-formed spells, which were brushed aside easily by your friend. Everyone settled into tense stillness as he leaned forward to peer into the jar.

The necromancer then threw his head back, laughing a sort of carefree, belly deep laugh you had never heard from him. "Remarkable!" he exclaimed, gripping your shoulders with excitement now. "My friend, you are truly amazing!"

Finally, the elder tipped the jar enough for you to look inside. The cursed, vile stone that promised miracles and brought ruin, lay cracked and dull.

While it had looked like a normal stone before, now it looked… dead. Gone was whatever had made it special.

"No one could undo its curse," the leader of the elders whispered. "How? How have you done this?"

You had no idea. You had no magic and no special talents. You lived a quiet and calm life, at least most days, and you enjoyed a good things, be they food, tea, or books and music. You couldn’t help but look at your friend, hoping he had an answer. As you watched a grin stretch across his face, you knew he indeed had one.

"Because no one needs it anymore," he said, voice a little gentler now. He chuckled. "You, my friend, made this thing obsolete."

"What?" the elders said sharply in unison.

The leader clutched the jar tightly. "What do you mean? How is that possible?"

"My friend here has been helping people fulfill their wishes left and right." He glanced at you. "As I was going to say earlier, people stopped talking about the Stone of Possibilities, and they started talking about you instead. The Miracle Dealer."

You felt baffled and dumbfound and utterly surprised. You protested, "But I haven’t done anything. I only lied to people."

"Perhaps," the necromancer allowed and smiled. "But even when I accepted the stone you gave me, I still wanted to believe in what you were offering. Everyone who comes here believes that you are handing them the chance to improve their lives. And then they go and do it, all because you wanted to ease their pain." He gave your shoulders a squeeze. "That, my friend, is a kind of magic no one can easily replicate."

The elders were as speechless as you. You had no idea what to say and felt glad when they cleared their throats.

"We should be on our way," the leader said, still clutching the broken jar with the broken rock inside. "We need to ensure the curse on this stone is really gone."

They teleported away, and you found yourself pulled into a hug by your friend. A second pair of arms, slender and cool, joined from behind, and you were squeezed gently by them.

"Thank you," the necromancer whispered. "For believing in us. For believing we can make our own lives better."

When you sniffed, they said nothing, only held you tighter, and this time, you were the one led to the kitchen table and sat down. They brought you cookies and made tea and handed you a handkerchief.

"Don’t ever doubt you are special again," your necromancer friend told you with a smile. Then he cleared his throat and reached for his girlfriend. "And we better run from the authorities before they come here. Sorry for the trouble!"

You couldn’t help your soft, watery laugh as they disappeared with a pop of displaced air. Pressing your hands to your heated cheeks, you realized you were grinning wide.

Maybe you should go and dig up some more rocks from the river. If people really came here for the promise of a miracle they would unknowingly create themselves in the end, then who were you to disappoint?