On my birthday, I made a small wish. The cake worked, the candles went out, and suddenly my whole world tilted into a room full of numbered doors.
It was my birthday, and the kitchen looked as if a rainbow had exploded in it.
Balloons bobbed against the ceiling. Presents crowded the table. Mum had made a cake with my name piped across the top in icing that leaned slightly to one side, as if it had lost its confidence halfway through. In the middle, one candle burned bravely, wobbling in the warm air.
"Make a wish," Mum said.
Everyone went quiet in that strange, expectant way grown-ups do when they think something important is about to happen. I stood with my hands behind my back and looked at the candle. I didn’t want a dragon, or a pony, or anything that needed a stable in the garden. I only wanted one ordinary day to turn into something impossible.
Something interesting. Something unforgettable.
I took a breath and blew.
Puff.
The flame vanished. The room burst into clapping, cheers, and the scrape of chairs as everyone leaned in for cake.
For exactly three heartbeats, nothing happened.
Then my fork touched the icing.
The plate rose off the table.
I froze so hard I nearly dropped the fork. Beside me, Mrs Patel’s spoon gave a delicate little bow, as if it had been waiting all along for its moment. A balloon drifted down to eye level and said, in a very deep voice, "Happy birthday, only the third slice is cursed."
My little brother shrieked with laughter. Mum frowned at the balloon. Dad said, "That is not helpful," to no one in particular.
Under the table, our dog Poppy sat up straight and began to sing "Happy Birthday" in English, then in what sounded suspiciously like French, and then in a language I was pretty sure belonged to space.
I blinked.
The kitchen was gone.
I was standing in a huge, echoing room lit by silver lamps that hummed softly overhead. Doors stretched in every direction, so many of them that I couldn’t count them. Some were tiny. Some were taller than basketball hoops. All of them had numbers painted on the wood in bright, shining gold.
One door, right in front of me, had a brass nameplate screwed to the middle.
Your wish.
I stared at it.
Then the handle turned from the other side.