There was a part of the school field no one really touched — the fence line that backed onto Grinder's Wood. The trees beyond it were gnarled and crooked, leaning toward the school like eavesdroppers. Even in summer, they looked cold.
Kids had theories. Myths. Mostly stupid.
"The Wishing Well's in there," said Charlie Fenn, pushing his glasses up his nose with a grubby finger. His school shirt was always half untucked, and he had the sort of backpack stuffed with far too many things — tissues, chess pieces, Pokémon cards, a notebook full of weird facts. He smelled faintly of jam and glue.
He and Harry sat on the concrete edge behind the field, legs dangling as the others played football.
Charlie spoke fast, like he didn't always get to say his piece before being talked over. "So the story goes: one wish, only one. You gotta say it nicely, real polite. Like a thank-you letter. Otherwise the wish backfires."
Harry raised an eyebrow. "And what, a genie pops out?"
"No, no. It's just… old magic," Charlie said, adjusting his glasses again. "Folk stuff. Proper British weirdness. But there's rules, y'know? You can't be greedy. Or lie. And if you do it wrong—"
"What happens?"
Charlie leaned in, eyes wide. "You never get what you want. Ever. Like, cursed."
Harry blinked. "That's a bit dramatic."
Charlie shrugged. "Explains why it never worked for anyone. Most people mess it up."
Harry glanced toward the trees. Dark. Still. Silent.
"Sounds like a story grown-ups made up."
"They say that," Charlie replied, "but grown-ups lie all the time. Kids believe 'cause we have to."
Two days later, Harry found himself trailing after Mrs. Morley on Driffield's High Street, dodging her swinging shopping bags and Keith's loud complaints about parking fines.
The day was overcast and the pavement wet. As they passed Portman's Sports & Outdoors, Harry stopped dead.
In the window: a pair of Nike Phantom Venoms. Electric blue. Silver trim. They practically hummed.
He pressed a hand to the glass. They were perfect.
Keith scoffed behind him. "Pointless looking at those."
Harry turned. "I… I just like them."
"What good are football boots when you live on a farm?" Janet chimed, flipping her shopping list.
"You need a pair of wellies," Keith added. "Something useful."
Harry hesitated. "I love football. I'd love to be able to play with my friends at school."
There was a beat — then laughter.
"Bless you," Janet said. "Just child dreams. Only one kid in thousands ever makes it. And you—" she looked him up and down "—well, you're too small, too quiet, and let's be honest, you've not got the athlete gene."
Keith snorted. "Time to stop dreaming, lad. Life's not a fairytale."
Harry nodded. "Yes, sir."
But something cracked a little deeper in his chest.
That night, after the Morleys had passed out in front of their usual Saturday quiz show, Harry slipped out the back door with his flat football under one arm. The sky was a deep blue velvet, stars blinking like secrets.
He crossed the field, ducked through the fence, and stepped into Grinder's Wood.
The forest swallowed him whole. The air turned cold and wet, like old breath. Every tree leaned just slightly the wrong way. Every shadow looked a little too long.
He walked in silence, guided by nothing but instinct and stubborn hope.
And then — it appeared.
Just beyond a ring of bramble: a well.
Ordinary. Moss-covered. No carvings. No glow. Just a cracked stone lip and a dark hole yawning downward.
Harry's heart sank. This was it? This was the magical wishing well? It looked like something that had been abandoned for decades. He half-expected a rusted shopping trolley to be wedged inside.
His shoulders dropped.
"Of course," he muttered bitterly. "Just a story. Should've known."
But even as disappointment pressed down like fog, something inside him — the tiny flicker of belief Charlie had sparked — refused to go out.
He stepped forward.
"I don't want to be famous," he said, voice small in the trees. "I just want to be able to play football. Not to win anything. Just to play properly. To be good enough. I don't want to be left out anymore."
The forest didn't stir.
He cleared his throat and tried again, softer now — as if speaking to something ancient that only understood kindness.
"If… if someone's listening. And if it's alright… I'd really like to be good at football. I'll work hard. I promise. I just want to feel like I'm… part of it. Like I matter. Thank you."
Silence.
Just the windless hush of moss and bark and darkness.
He waited. Then sighed.
It felt silly now. Childish.
He looked into the well — just a black hole, crusted with years of rain and leaves and animal droppings.
Of course it didn't work. Why would it?
Just a story. A nothing place in the middle of nowhere.
He turned to go.
Then — the ball at his feet twitched.
Just a nudge. Barely more than a whisper of motion. But it moved. And not from him.
Harry froze.
For one long second, he stared at it — breath caught, heart thumping in his chest like a drum.
It might've been wind. Or the slope of the earth. Or—
But maybe… just maybe…
He picked it up gently, holding it like it might fall apart, and turned back toward the path. As he disappeared into the trees, something deep within the well pulsed once. A soundless click, like a mechanism unlocking.
Harry didn't hear it.
But the forest did.