200 Cups of Tea #2: Threads of Connection
A fairytale about choosing to forget.
Prompt: "Every night, a tiny fairy visits the same windowsill to leave behind glowing petals—but tonight, she finds a note waiting for her."
It is said that a fairy is born when a human baby laughs for the very first time. That their joy has the power to create life. What most don’t realize, however, is that on rare occasions a baby’s laughter is so strong it creates an inextricable tie between fairy and human, connecting them for life.
“Goodnight, sweet one. I hope you have the most beautiful dreams tonight,” the small fairy says, gazing through a pane of glass at the baby sleeping peacefully. She touches the cosmos petals, and for a brief moment, they pulse brighter before the light travels down light threads to the baby. As the light moves through them, the threads stir, then settle once more, floating listlessly.
The fairy watches with quiet delight as the glow surrounds the baby, casting him in a soft golden light before slowly fading. A gentle sigh escapes the baby’s lips, and the fairy sighs with him, bidding him goodnight once more.
Years pass quietly for the child and the fairy. He grows quickly, first into an exuberant toddler, then into a gentle young boy. The fairy teaches him about the world: how ants build their kingdoms and how spiders weave their silky webs; when to find the first snowdrops emerging in the spring; and how to play with butterflies fluttering in the breeze. She shows him how to make dust dance and water sing. The threads between them stay strong, golden and bright. They fall into a simple, pure routine, together in wonder and joy.
Yet, this routine is temporary. As time goes on, distance grows between them and the boy begins putting up barriers. Though small at first, they grow with the boy in strength and height. The fairy strains with the effort of keeping their threads alive.
But it comes at a cost. The fairy—once bright and spirited—wilts. Her colors dull, and heavy aches throb in her heart with each barrier she comes across. It becomes harder and harder to spark the wonder in the boy’s eyes or the excitement in his step. Eventually, he stops interacting with her altogether.
The fairy realizes that the most she can do now is return to the windowsill each night and leave behind the glowing petals, hoping that they will remind the boy of their bond.
So it goes. The fairy watches from afar as the boy grows. Every night without fail, she leaves the petals, just barely keeping their threads alive. Every night, she hopes for a response, though it proves fruitless.
That is until one warm summer evening. The sky fades slowly from a bright blue to a soft violet. Stars blink lazily into existence and a lone robin bids the world goodnight, his notes dancing on the breeze.
The fairy—Cosmea—flutters gracefully over to the open window, hoping to see the boy already asleep in his bed. He had named her after the human word for the cosmos flower. “It matches you,” he had said, laughing. “You look just like a cosmos flower.”
Her wings fan out behind her as she approaches the windowsill. The sill is usually empty, but a small rock now pins down a torn piece of paper. She pushes the rock to the side and inspects the paper beneath: wrinkles bend the surface, the edges are jagged, and large, wobbly lines leave small holes where a pencil was pressed down too hard. Her heart beats in quick rhythmic bursts, sending pulses of light down the threads. Her tiny fingers tremble as they trace the marks. He’s reaching out to me.
A noise from inside startles her; she was so absorbed in the paper that she didn’t notice the child sitting at the desk, watching her. She gasps and her wings flutter in fright.
“Wait,” the boy says abruptly, Cosmea freezes mid-flight, eyes wide. “Please,” he amends, quieter this time. Uncertainty traces his features, his eyes are wide, his face is blotchy.
He hesitates briefly, before walking over and holding out a cautious hand to the fairy. She finds her balance on his palm and there’s a moment of silence as they study each other. Baby fat has given way to lankier limbs, but his face still holds the chubbiness that Cosmea adores. There’s a pang in her heart, though, for she does not see wonder in his beautiful brown eyes, nor the bright open smile that used to greet her. The boy’s eyes are rimmed red and guarded, his mouth screwed tight, streaks of dried salt line his cheeks. He’s been crying, she realizes.
Her chest tightens, and Cosmea grabs the boy’s thumb, both to steady herself and to provide comfort. “Hello sweet one,” she says, softly. “I am happy to see you.”
He frowns, uncertain, and picks up the torn paper with his other hand. He studies it for a moment, then shows it to her. “Do you know what it says?”
Cosmea shakes her head and the boy’s lips begin to tremble with the threat of tears. “Tell me,” she says encouragingly.
“It says—” his voice breaks. “It says, ‘I don’t want you anymore.” The boy’s face crumples and fat tears roll down his cheeks as sobs overtake him. Cosmea stares at him, stunned. The threads between them dim and tighten.
“A-at school, they say that you’re not real,” he says between big, gulping breaths. “They laugh at me because of you. They don’t like me because of you.”
Time seems to stretch as the boy struggles to get under control. Each wracking sob crashes into the fairy like waves and she watches in stunned silence as the once golden threads quiver from strain.
Eventually, the boy’s sobs slow, replaced with wet sniffling. Cosmea’s eyes wander up to his face, and she is hardly surprised to see that it’s hardened with resolve.
“So I don’t believe in you.”
Snap. One thread breaks. Snap. Snap. Snap. Two, three, four threads–each one piercing her heart like a dagger.
She gasps with the pain and scrambles for the threads. They disintegrate into dirty ash at her touch. She looks up at the boy, eyes wide with panic.
“But that can’t be true. I’m here. You must believe in me.”
He shakes his head ruefully and tilts his palm, so Cosmea has no choice but to fall off onto the windowsill. Snap. He nudges her back with a finger. Snap. Snap. The link between them grows thinner.
“Wait,” she says, trying to grab him. He shakes her off, and moves to close the window. “Please.”
Snap. Snap. Snap. The petals of her dress, once an array of vibrant pinks and purples, fade and curl, becoming brittle like that of a fall leaf. Her magic weakens and her wings fail to lift her.
The window clicks shut and she stumbles to the glass and pushes, though she knows it is futile. The boy turns away from the window. Her knees give out from beneath her. Through the glass she watches as he takes one step away, then another, and another, each step causing another thread to snap.
Her heart breaks. I have always believed in you.
Their bond fractures. Threads snap like bones breaking before disintegrating. Cosmea curls in on herself, the last of her magic fading. Dust rains down, covering her like a blanket. She takes a shallow breath. Then another. Then—nothing.
A warm summer’s breeze lifts her gently from the windowsill. It carries her through the air, down to a bed of cosmos flowers. Then, with great care, the breeze lays her body down among the flowers of her namesake, putting her to rest.
The robin trills his final notes, a mournful song bidding the world goodnight. The breeze stills. The world becomes quiet.
There’s a poem called “Puff the Magic Dragon” written by Leonard Lipton. Later, it was turned into a song by Peter, Paul, and Mary (and a lot of people initially thought it was about drug use). However, it is actually about the grand adventures of a little boy and his dragon, Puff. They would travel on boats and fight pirates and meet kings and princes. But then, the boy, Jackie, grew up and eventually forgot about Puff. The poem ends with Puff losing his best friend and returning to his cave all alone.
I wrote this story with that song in mind. All of us grow up with these big imaginations which are eventually snuffed out by reality. I was also inspired by the origin story of Tinkerbell and the scene in the 2003 live action Peter Pan when the children chant “I do believe in magic! I do! I do!” bringing Tinker Bell back to life.
Belief is what creates magic. This story is an ode to the worlds we made up, the creatures that kept us company, and to the friends we stopped believing in.
The story prompt was generated with the help of AI. The writing and artwork are my own.
Beautifully written. That moment when your children realize reality over magic is bittersweet.