The Wish Collector

You have faith in your own worth and the world won’t matter.

There’s light in the darkness, man. I promise you. And you’re going to be a part of it. There’s no one better than you to be a part of it.

We must never choose safety over right. Safety is the blanket under which cowards sleep. Safety smothers hope and extinguishes all fight.

I believe everyone deserves grace, Clara. What you will have to ask yourself is if you should offer that grace from near or from afar. Offering grace does not mean offering your heart. That, my darlin’, must be protected at all cost.

I suppose you’ve got your own piece of advice for me too, old man?” “Yeah. Get your daggum shit together.

Love makes a place for itself even if there isn’t one, Mama,” she said quietly. “Love carves into the hardest of places.

It’s not easy,” Ruben said, sitting up on the couch and gesturing to his own marred face. “Wearing your mistakes and regrets on the outside where others can judge them. But, man, the problem is not that others judge you harshly, it’s that you believe what they say.

There are lots of ways to avoid pain,” she murmured. “None of them are healthy if they’re based on fear. A reaction—a rebellion if you will—rather than something from the heart.

It’s always about you, Jonah. It’s always been about you. The world will react the way the world will react. That’s not your business. You have faith in your own worth and the world won’t matter.

Maybe, she thought. Maybe we were all some shade of monstrous given the right circumstances.

You’re choosing a path here . .

I . . . I was wondering how many lifetimes we might get to be with the ones we love. I was wondering—hoping—that there’s something after this. Another life, another chance.” She turned her head minutely, bringing her mouth closer to the side of his neck and a small tremor went through him. “Love can’t just disappear when this life is through, can it, Jonah? Even if our bodies turn to dust, the love we feel must go somewhere.

Guilt at turning a blind eye, at participating, even by inaction, in something he’d innately known was wrong.

She just wanted to love him and feel loved in return. Why was that too much to ask? Why must the color of one’s skin determine destiny? Determine wars. Separation. How did the color of one’s skin create such distinction when no one asked to be born what he or she was? Surely God on High hadn’t intended that. Had He?

Wearing your mistakes and regrets on the outside where others can judge them. But, man, the problem is not that others judge you harshly, it’s that you believe what they say.

Once upon a time, he had been a man used to the spotlight and now he was a man who danced between moonbeams.

Love can’t just disappear when this life is through, can it, Jonah? Even if our bodies turn to dust, the love we feel must go somewhere.

It surprised her that she was so pleased by his compliment when she’d never been a girl who cared overly much about her appearance, instead choosing to focus on her talents, her skills, the things she was in control of. But she was still a girl, and to hear that this man, whose opinion she’d come to care about, thought she was beautiful brought her joy.

Something sparked in the air, something Clara was surprised didn’t illuminate the darkness, something that felt bright and shimmery and she swore was raining upon her skin like the fallout of a broken star.

Her father had wiped her tears and told her she couldn't always cry for the world or she’d be crying all the time. "But, Daddy," she’d said, "if I don't let my tears out, won't I drown inside?

The world will react the way the world will react. That’s not your business. You have faith in your own worth and the world won’t matter.

Why was that too much to ask? Why must the color of one’s skin determine destiny? Determine wars. Separation. How did the color of one’s skin create such distinction when no one asked to be born what he or she was? Surely God on High hadn’t intended that. Had He?

But, Daddy," she’d said, "if I don't let my tears out, won't I drown inside?

This was Clara, and she was in his arms, and he never wanted to dance with anyone else again.

You collect them," she repeated slowly. "So I guess you're the wish collector, then?

Oh, the other slaves who lived at Windisle, I imagine. It’s been passed down through generations. Why, my own grandmother told me the story of Angelina Loreaux and John Whitfield when I was knee-high to a mosquito.” She laughed, the sound melodic and sweet