Not waiting.
Two.
‘I didn’t—’ Her voice faltered. Because she had. She’d stood here before and poured her grief into the air like it was something the universe might collect and return improved.
The lights pulsed faintly, almost like breathing.
‘I was upset,’ she whispered. ‘That doesn’t count.’
The machine responded with a soft, crystalline chime.
Not cheerful. Confirming.
The spinner twitched but did not complete another turn.
Two.
The etched lettering gleamed faintly:
Three Wishes. No Refunds.
The words felt heavier now. Less theatrical. Less like an old pub novelty dragged from storage.
More like terms and conditions.
Beth took a step back.
‘You don’t get to decide what I meant,’ she said, anger pushing through fear. ‘You don’t get to interpret grief.’
The bulbs dimmed slightly, then brightened again.
The genie’s painted eyes seemed almost reflective, catching light that wasn’t there.
Behind her, the cupboard door creaked open an inch.
Beth spun.
The bags sat exactly where she’d thrown them. No movement. No sound.
When she turned back, the display still read:
000002
Unchanged.
Waiting.
A shudder of cold slid down her spine.
‘I don’t want this,’ she said hoarsely.
The machine did not dim.
Did not flicker.
Did not retreat.
It simply remained.
