The Price of Greed

Ten-year-old Finnigan O'Malley, a scrawny wisp of a boy with a constant dust cloud circling his ankles, stumbled upon the crone by sheer accident. He was chasing a runaway spool of kite string through the tangled woods behind his house, when it snagged on a crooked branch protruding from a ramshackle hut he hadn't noticed before.
Peeking through a gap in the warped boards, Finnigan saw a woman unlike any he'd ever encountered. Her skin was like aged parchment, etched with a lifetime's worth of lines, and her eyes, a startling turquoise against her weathered face, seemed to hold the shimmer of a distant sea. She sat slumped in a rocking chair, muttering to a scrawny black cat curled upon her lap.

Hesitantly, Finnigan called out, "Excuse me?"

The woman's head snapped up, and her gaze pierced him like a sharpened icicle. Then, a smile, as warm as sunlight breaking through winter clouds, spread across her face. "Lost, are we?" she rasped, her voice like dry leaves rustling.

Finnigan explained about the kite string, earning a throaty chuckle. "Ah, kites and dreams," the woman said, "often end up tangled in unexpected places."

Intrigued, Finnigan ventured closer. The cat hissed, but the woman stroked its head, calming it. "Come in, child," she beckoned. "This old woman can offer you a cup of tea and perhaps… a chance."

Inside the hut, shadows danced in the flickering candlelight. The air held the scent of woodsmoke and strange, heady herbs. Finnigan sipped the tea, its warmth tingling down his throat. The woman watched him with amusement.

"That," she said after he finished, "was no ordinary tea. It grants wishes. Three, to be precise."

Finnigan nearly choked. Three wishes? This had to be a dream. He eyed the woman suspiciously, but her smile held no malice.

"Who are you?" he finally blurted.

"Just a weaver of stories, child," she replied enigmatically. "And your wishes are threads in the tapestry of fate. Choose wisely."

Finnigan's mind raced. A brand new bike! A room full of candy! He wanted it all. The woman's words – "choose wisely" – drifted through his excitement, but greed drowned it out.

"I want the biggest, shiniest castle the world has ever seen!" he blurted out.

The woman nodded, a flicker of sadness in her turquoise eyes. With a wave of her hand, the hut dissolved around them. Finnigan found himself standing on a hilltop, gazing up at a magnificent fortress. Towers scraped the clouds, banners shimmered in the sunlight, and a bustling town sprawled around its base.

For a time, Finnigan revelled in his wish. He explored every nook and cranny of the castle, ordered feasts fit for a king, and strutted around in silks heavier than he'd ever imagined. But novelty soon faded. The food grew monotonous, the rooms felt lonely, and the constant stream of sycophants praising him became tiresome. His friends from the village, used to his dusty overalls and scraped knees, stopped visiting. He missed their laughter and the familiar warmth of his worn-down bed.

One day, a haggard messenger arrived with grim news. Taxes, levied by a jealous neighbouring kingdom, had bankrupted the town. The villagers were starving, and the castle treasury was bare.

Greedy once again, Finnigan made his second wish: "I want a mountain of gold to fill my coffers!"

A mountain materialized beside the castle, glittering under the sun. The villagers cheered, momentarily forgetting their hunger in the face of such wealth. Finnigan filled his pockets, imagining a life of endless luxury.

But the gold brought more problems than solutions. People fought over it, thieves swarmed the castle, and trust evaporated. The villagers, once simple and content, grew envious and bitter. The joy of life drained away, replaced by suspicion and greed.

Desperate, Finnigan made his final wish. "I want everyone to forget about the gold! I want everything to be like it was before!"

The wish granted, the mountain vanished. But it wasn't enough. The villagers, forever altered by their taste of avarice, ostracized Finnigan. Blaming him for the disruption and hardships they'd endured, they chased him away with pitchforks and shouts.

He stood alone on the deserted hilltop, his grand castle now a crumbling ruin. The woman with the turquoise eyes materialized before him, her expression sorrowful.

"You see, child," she said, her voice soft, "wishes are tools. Misused, they can unravel the fabric of happiness. Greed begets only emptiness."

Tears prickled