Lullaby by Amy Lee(15, South Korea)

Trigger Warning: Loss
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​Minutes before midnight, when the last lights in the neighborhood insist on dimming, the mother walks down the dirt path that leads, like every other street here, to the wishing well, the one each house overlooked, including theirs.

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Through the shadowed window opening outward towards the community jangmadang, vendors call at housewives as they throw out bunches of green grapes and gam. Over her shoulders, the mother can hear the chattering of the milling crowd, and the well’s wooden spindle creaking as the wind whistles past. This is what keeps the people in peace – at least for as long as the town's money holds out.
Each night the echoes of water have lulled them to sleep. When they wake, not even a small hesitation is allowed before several heads of people wait to collect a bottle of water, wishing for the spirits of the well to hear their wishes. The sun pours over the woman's face and arms. Standing against so many people, she thinks as if the falling water has brought her in the presence of new dawn lights.
“Shhh,” the others shush the mother, glancing at her as if telling her to move away as they pray for themselves.
As the woman walks away, she finds herself standing, sauntering down the middle of an alley where she has no reason to be, a place she has come from a simple coincidence, a fortune she had hoped for minutes ago, where no one is hurt, but reunited.
At the sight of a young boy sitting against a neighborhood house, the woman steadies herself against the stone wall. With her left hand grasping at the stone, she lets out an excited giggle.
“Junhwan…” the mother whispers.
The young boy does not respond, as if it’s only his apparition the mother can see, and the two sit together in silence. Above the cratered Dol-hareubangs, the moon is  blank in the sky. No stars. Minutes later, when the last street light blinks out behind them, they can tell they’ve stayed out too long, and the mother returns to find herself wandering the outskirts of her town, alone.
In this entire village, only a single streetlight beside the fountain burns. From the yellow glare, the well looks fissured with cracks. Its brick walls are crumbling, softened by the algae growing in between. During the day, the village chief patches the cracks and brushes down each village path, but every night like a recurring dream, late noon after the mother has visited her son, dark cracks reappear and through small gaps, the water puddles each stone so that it seems like a rainstorm has just swept the square.
Tonight, after the trickling water has soothed everyone to sleep, the mother takes her sandals off, sweeps strands of hair (that had turned gray over the years) off her face, and bends down against the brick walls of the well, praying for another opportunity — a succession of fortunes for her and her son. At that moment, a young passersby reminds the woman of her family. Opposite the well, alone in the center of this neighborhood, the mother glares up at the starry sky, hoping for the spirits to hear her voice.
 
Amy Lee is a young writer with a passion for exploring complex themes through her poetry and prose. Her works often focus on environmental issues and loss. Amy draws inspiration from her experiences growing up in several cities where she has witnessed firsthand the impact of climate change and urbanization on the natural world. Her writing has been recognized by publications such as Eunoia Review, and Uppagus, āraśi the reflector, etc.