The final whistle had blown, but the buzz lingered. The school day was done, and the swarm of children poured toward the gates, eager for home.
Harry shuffled along with the crowd, clutching his kit bag, when he felt two pairs of footsteps fall into step beside him.
"Hey, Brewer," Liam said, nudging him lightly. Malik followed, arms crossed, an unreadable expression on his face.
"You played well today," Malik added gruffly. "How long've you been playing proper football?"
Harry hesitated. "Not very long, really. I've never had a proper game before… just practice."
Liam's eyebrows rose in surprise. "No way. You're like a natural."
"Yeah," Malik agreed, "but, y'know, defense's important, but goals win games. We're the ones who score 'em, not the defenders."
Harry nodded politely, though inside he felt a quiet disagreement. Defense was what kept the team in the game, but he didn't want to argue.
"I guess," he said softly, "I'm still learning. But I want to get better."
Liam smiled. "Well, you should come to trials tomorrow. It's your chance."
"Yeah," Malik said, "but don't think you're gonna run the show just yet. We're still the big players."
Harry's cheeks flushed, but he managed a small smile. "I'll try my best."
As they reached the school gates, Liam and Malik fell back to join their own friends, leaving Harry alone with a strange mix of hope and doubt swirling in his chest.
Meanwhile, from across the field, Mr. Hadley watched quietly, folding his arms.
That boy… he muttered under his breath. Neutralizing that winger — not bad for a nine-year-old left-back. If only they could see what I saw.
The thought tugged at him. If Harry's adaptability and positional sense could be woven into the team's fabric, they might finally push past second place next year.
But would the others see it too?
The school gates opened, and Harry spotted his foster parents waiting by their battered old car.
"You look like you've got a smile on yer face," his foster mother said, squinting.
"Don't get used to it," his foster father grunted. "Chores ain't done yet. The barn won't clean itself."
"Come on then, Harry, we've got work to do. No faffing about."
Harry nodded, stuffing his kit bag under his arm, trying to hold onto the small spark of joy despite their gruff voices.
Later that evening, the chores were done, the farm quieted down, and Harry found himself at last alone in his tiny attic bedroom. Dust motes floated lazily in the late afternoon sun that filtered through the small window. The world outside was vast, and yet here, in this cramped space, Harry felt the weight of the day settle on his shoulders.
He dropped onto his creaky bed, his mind buzzing with the day's events. The praise from Mr. Hadley, the unexpected win, Liam and Malik's questions—it was all swirling in a whirlpool of excitement and disbelief.
He lay there for a while, staring up at the low, sloped ceiling. His body was tired, but his mind wouldn't stop moving — replaying the sound of the ball being struck, the clang of the crossbar, Mr. Hadley's approving glance, the rough praise from Malik, Liam's grin.
None of it felt real.
He'd never stood out before — not at school, not at home, not anywhere. And yet today… for the briefest stretch of time, he had.
A small smile crept onto his face.
His chest still fluttered with leftover adrenaline, a strange mix of joy and nerves. It wasn't just that he'd played well — it was that he hadn't failed. He hadn't frozen. He hadn't been invisible.
His eyes drifted to the window, where the last light of day had turned the sky orange and grey. He thought of the well, of that silly moment when he'd whispered a wish into the dark.
He hadn't told anyone — not Liam, not Malik, not even the cows in the field. It was his alone. A secret. And somehow, that made it feel more real.
Even if it had all been a coincidence… something had shifted.
Maybe magic didn't need to be explained.
As sleep began to tug at his eyelids, Harry's thoughts floated like dust in the sunlight — slow, drifting, full of the day's wonder. Somewhere between waking and dreaming, the silence in his attic shifted.
A soft hum curled around him. Faint, like wind brushing through trees or a whisper from deep underground.
He opened his eyes — or thought he did — and the attic was gone.
Instead, he stood in a vast open space, not dark, but silver-lit, with shadows that moved like thoughts. There were no walls, no floor — only a strange feeling of being watched, not by someone, but by something ancient and kind.
A shape shimmered in the distance — not a person, not quite. More like a presence, glowing faintly, like the outline of a star seen through fog.
No words were spoken, yet a message filled the space around him, quiet and clear.
"You wished."
Harry's breath caught. He didn't reply — somehow, he knew he didn't have to.
"Wishes are seeds. They grow only if you do."
The silver light pulsed softly, and for a moment, he felt warmth spread through his chest. Not heat — something deeper. Like courage, or possibility.
"What you become will not come easily. But it will come."
The voice wasn't in his ears — it rang in his bones. It held no promises of greatness, no rules or numbers, only a strange certainty that something had changed — not out there, but in him.
Then, as quickly as it had begun, the dream dissolved into black.
Harry awoke to sunlight brushing his face, heart pounding with a quiet, determined rhythm.
For a long moment, Harry lay still, the dream feeling both real and unreal—like a secret whispered in the night that might be nothing more than wishful thinking. But his brilliant performance in PE the day before was proof enough to kindle hope that maybe, just maybe, the well's myth had granted him something extraordinary.
He stretched, feeling perfectly rested and ready for what lay ahead.
Harry woke at exactly 6:00 a.m., the soft glow of dawn filtering through the thin curtains. For the first time in his life, a genuine smile tugged at the corners of his mouth as a warm feeling blossomed inside him—hope, bright and new. His mind buzzed with a fierce determination, a hunger to practice, improve, and prove that his wish might actually be real.
Without hesitation, Harry slipped out of bed and pulled on his worn clothes. Outside, the farm was still quiet, but he moved with purpose. First, he tackled the chicken coop, gathering eggs and tidying the scattered straw with nimble fingers. The routine, once dull and draining, now felt different—charged with energy.
Next, Harry grabbed a heavy sack of feed and lugged it toward the barn, feeling the strain in his small arms and legs. It was hard, but he welcomed the challenge. He bent down to pull stubborn weeds from the vegetable patch, using every bit of strength he could muster to twist and haul at the thick roots. "If I'm going to get better," he thought, "I have to build my body too."
His frame was still small and skinny for a nine-year-old, but with every chore completed, a fire kindled within him, pushing doubt aside. The quiet voice that once whispered that the well's magic was just a myth grew fainter and fainter, drowned out by his growing confidence.
When he finally cleaned up and dressed for school, his foster parents took note of the subtle change. They exchanged cautious glances but kept their opinions to themselves.
"Ye alright, Harry?" his foster dad grunted as they all headed out the door.
"Yeah, I'm fine," Harry said softly, surprising even himself with how steady his voice sounded. "Can I go to the trials after school today?"
His foster parents hesitated. They'd long thought his football dreams foolish—just another childish fantasy destined to end in disappointment. But seeing the spark in Harry's eyes, so different from his usual quiet shyness, they silently hoped that this trial might give him a reality check. Maybe, once it was over, Harry would focus more on the farm work that really mattered so they agreed.
At school, time seemed to crawl. Every lesson felt stretched thin, every minute inching closer to the end of the day—and the trials. Harry found himself clock-watching more than once, his heart pounding with excitement and nerves.
At lunchtime, Liam and Malik came over, a football tucked under Malik's arm.
"Going to the trials, yeah?" Liam asked, a grin spreading across his face.
"Definitely," Harry replied eagerly. "I can't wait."
They headed to the playground and started a game of keepy-ups. Malik went first, flicking the ball up with easy confidence, keeping it in the air for a few quick touches before sending it over to Liam. Liam controlled it with one foot, let it bounce once, then juggled it cleanly about ten times, light and effortless, before passing it across to Harry.
Harry stepped up. His first touch was heavy, sending the ball awkwardly off his shin and bouncing away.
Malik laughed. "You call that keepy-ups?" he said, shaking his head — then glanced quickly around the playground, checking if anyone had seen, a flicker of smugness in his posture as if scoring points off Harry made him look cooler.
But Liam didn't laugh. He watched Harry quietly, remembering the way he'd tracked that winger yesterday — how he'd adjusted, adapted, and figured it out on the fly.
There was something there.
Something you couldn't see in a single touch.
"Hold on," Liam said, crouching beside Harry. "You're close — just need to get the timing right. Watch."
He showed a simple juggling technique, his voice calm and steady as he broke it down step by step.
Five minutes later, Harry flicked the ball into the air and kept it up — once, twice, three times — building rhythm with each touch. After reaching ten, he passed it back to Liam with a shy but proud smile.
Liam beamed. "See? Told you you could do it."
Malik, however, crossed his arms and scowled, clearly annoyed by the attention Harry was getting. "Whatever. Just wait till the trials."
But for Harry, that moment was a turning point. The laughter and doubt faded beneath a new sense of purpose—one that was only just beginning to take shape.