The first time I heard about the Wishing Stone, I was just a child, nestled beside my grandmother as she read me stories. One of my favorites was 'The Tale of the Wishing Stone.' I can still hear her soothing voice telling the legend, as if it were only yesterday. As a kid, my imagination was incredibly vivid. I could create anything I envisioned and replay memories in my mind like a film.

 

My grandma, my role model, was the one who encouraged this wild imagination. She was a dedicated archaeologist, always returning home with stories from her expeditions—adventures in distant lands, encounters with ancient artifacts, and tales of things that weren’t always what they seemed. Sometimes, she’d suggest that the things that go bump in the night might actually be real. Naturally, I soaked up those stories. They were everything a child like me could wish for.

 

The Wishing Stone was one story that stood out from all the others, one that changed everything for me. It was about a magical stone. However, my grandma couldn’t share the entire tale; she only revealed bits and pieces. To hear the complete version, she said, she would need to read from an old book—a book that contained the most accurate telling of the story.

 

Over the years, I discovered that my grandma had dedicated much of her career as an archaeologist to searching for that very stone. She had followed leads and traveled the globe, but despite all her efforts, she and her team had never managed to find it. That’s why the story remained unfinished.