Everyday without fail little Ben would walk through the village on his way home from school, his hands rustling through his pockets as he reached the sweetshop; rummaging for loose change. Through the tissues, the dirt and the little stones he would collect Ben would pull together 30p and use it to buy his favourite sweets.

“2 chewy bars please.” He would say, with his eyes just poking over the counter, the scars on his head clearly visible to the frail lady, who in 60 years had not moved from that counter.

“There we go Ben, and how are you today? On your own again?” She would ask, her eyes hinting towards scars.

“I’m fine.” He would answer, everyday, in the sweetest voice, angelic, full of youth and vibrancy.

He would skip off over the hill opposite, towards the fields. A woman with better eye sight would see him throw a coin into the deep well situated in the middle of the field; a woman with the ears of a dog would hear how he wished for enough money the next day to buy some sweets. People from far and wide came to that well, asking for cars, money, and success; never did they get it.

“I wish for 31p again tomorrow please.” He would ask the hole before him.

The next day Ben arrived in the shop, “2 chewy bars please.” He placed his money on the counter, and once more set off across the field home, throwing his penny in the well.

Which had become somewhat of a national news item, with cries being heard from inside when coins were dropped, a myth the frail old lady thought but wondering what all the fuss was about she left her counter, with her coin, and headed for the well. Clutching the penny she looked into the hole, she closed her eyes, held her breath and wished.

“I wish I knew how that poor little boy keeps cutting his head.” She threw the coin with a force,to her surprise a cry was heard from the well, the shocked frail old lady lost her balance, the wind blew; and she fell, deep into the well; landing on a small boy called Ben, cradling a cut as he did his homework.