These days, no-one bought the puppet-maker’s toys. But still his shelves were lined with wooden marionettes.
“Why do you do it?” I asked.
“Because once upon a time, an old man made a wish,” he said. “Y’know, when you’re young, you don’t understand age. You think it’s as tough as varnished wood. But flesh decays.”
“So many things I still want to do. But, old men have had wishes granted before.”
I looked at the marionettes, with their smooth, oiled joints. “You’d wish for a son?”
“Hah, no! I’d wish I’d never wanted to be a real boy.”