“I’ll head to the market right away then,” the father says standing up.
The grandfather puts up a hand, stopping his son mid stride. “Let the boy go, he is much quicker than you.”
The boy got out of his mother’s lap and walked over to his father, who pulled out one of their coins from his pocket.
The father hands him the coin and he grips it in his small hand and runs out the door following the dirt path to the market, his father watching him run down the path until he cannot see him anymore.
When the boy reaches the market he runs straight to the Well, passing all of the salesmen and horses with carts flying to the other side of the small market, for the Well was on the quieter part of town and not many people came to the Well at this hour. The market Well is much grimier than the one described in the story. This Well was chipped and had been worn out where water dripped along the ancient stone. The rusted bucket hung limp, its rope wrapped around the rotting wood.
The child stood there, gripping the round coin in his hand. He closed his eyes and said, “I wish for a bag of sweets.”
The coin fell into the Well, a moment of silence before a “clunk” sound echoed up the dark walls of the old