“I don’t see the point in carrying this bucket around all day,” sighed Miguel, adjusting his glasses as he nudged the nearly empty blue bucket lightly with his foot. The desolate campus square stretched endlessly before him, as still as a painting. The afternoon sun filtered through the vibrant canopy of elms, casting a mosaic of light and shadow over the cobblestones.

“Ah, Miguel, that’s where you’re wrong.” His friend, Clara, chuckled, her eyes sparkling with uncontainable mischief. “This is not just any bucket. Legend says it holds the magic to change our reality, to rewrite the mundane tales of our student lives.”

Miguel glanced skeptically at the bucket. “Magic? In this drab thing? Looks like it’s only good for holding rainwater.”

Clara leaned against the weather-beaten bench, the old wood creaking under her weight. “You don’t understand because you don’t see beyond what is given. This bucket, ordinary as it seems, has a history. They say García Márquez once dreamed of such mundane objects holding the keys to fantastical worlds.”

“Are you suggesting,” Miguel retorted, “that this little chore item is the very door to a magical realm? You and your stories, Clara.”

Clara shrugged, her smile as enigmatic as the tobacco-smoky portraits of past poets hung in the student union. “Think of our routine lives here at university—a cycle of classes, library cramming, coffee. Doesn’t your soul thirst for something more, even once?”

Her words hung in the air, swirling among the crisp autumn leaves and echoing in Miguel’s thoughts. He bent to pick up the bucket. Somehow, its handle, cool and worn, felt comforting in his grasp.

“Let’s say this bucket is indeed magical. What would you have it do?” Miguel asked, curiosity getting the better of his incredulity.

Clara tapped her chin, pretending to consider carefully. “Perhaps it avoids getting us drenched by sudden rains or, whimsically, offer surreal wisdom during exams. Imagine finding answers hidden in its depths.”

Chuckling despite himself, Miguel started walking, his companion following close behind. The worn path led to an old stone building nestled among ancient oaks—La Biblioteca Cien Años, a bastion of history and silence.

Inside, the musty scent of aged pages enveloped them as they settled into wooden chairs, the bucket beside them, deceptively unremarkable. Miguel, peering into its emptiness, began, “You know, maybe, just maybe, there’s a poetic truth to what you say.”

Clara, opening an old tome, replied softly, “That’s the essence of magic, isn’t it? Believing in what could be adds color to reality.”

Miguel nodded, lost in thought and tinged by a hint of belief. As the setting sun bathed the library in golden hues, their laughter mingled with shadows lengthening across the books.

Years later, under the elm’s unwavering watch, the bucket still sat on the library steps, now a silent witness to its former guardians’ legacy. New students passed by daily, ignoring it mostly, except for a curious few who paused to wonder at its history.

In this symbolic, wordless conclusion, the once-boring bucket achieved a timeless existence—a testament to the allure of the imagination, hexed by stories only those who dare to dream can unlock. Just as Miguel and Clara once had.