“Another penny for your thoughts, little one?” Mr. Thornberry’s weathered face crinkled as he held out a gleaming copper coin. The girl, no more than twelve, clutched her tattered shawl tighter around bony shoulders.
“I was just wondering, sir,” Lucy whispered, her eyes fixed on the peculiar cherry tree growing through the cobblestones of Victorian London, “why it blooms in winter?”
The ancient merchant’s eyes twinkled. “Ah, now that’s quite the tale. You see, this cherry tree isn’t like others. It grows on wishes - the genuine kind, mind you - not those frivolous wants that plague our commerce-obsessed society.”
Lucy approached the tree, its pink blossoms somehow warm despite the bitter December wind. Steam rose from its trunk like breath in the cold air. “Does it grant them too, Mr. Thornberry?”
“Perhaps. Though not in ways one might expect.” He gestured to the busy street where wealthy ladies in silk bustled past chimney sweeps without a glance. “You see that man there? The one in the fine coat?”
Lucy nodded. The gentleman in question was berating a young bootblack for missing a spot.
“Three winters ago, he wished for wealth beneath this very tree. Got his wish too - inherited a fortune. But now he can’t feel warmth anymore, not even on the hottest summer day.”
“That’s horrible!” Lucy gasped.
“Indeed. The tree has its own way of teaching lessons about what truly matters.” Mr. Thornberry’s voice grew softer. “What would you wish for, child?”
Lucy didn’t hesitate. “For everyone to feel as warm as this tree makes me feel.”
The old merchant’s eyes widened. In forty years of watching over the magical cherry tree, he’d never heard such a wish.
That night, something extraordinary happened. The cherry tree’s blossoms began to float - not fall, but float - carrying their mysterious warmth throughout London’s darkest corners. They found their way into workhouses, factories, and slums, leaving behind not just physical warmth, but the kind that blooms in hearts.
The wealthy found themselves stopping to help strangers. Children in factories felt their supervisors’ hearts soften. Even the coldest miser discovered an inexplicable urge to share bread with hungry street urchins.
When Lucy returned the next morning, the tree had vanished, leaving only a single cherry blossom in her palm. Mr. Thornberry stood nearby, suddenly appearing decades younger.
“You’ve done it, Lucy,” he smiled. “After centuries, someone finally understood. The tree wasn’t meant to grant wishes - it was waiting for someone to wish for others’ happiness instead of their own.”
“But where has it gone?” Lucy asked, watching her breath mist in the cold air - or was it steam from an invisible trunk?
“Gone? Oh no, dear child. Look closer at those you pass on the street. The tree is now everywhere and nowhere - just like warmth itself.”
And if you walk through London today, they say you might still feel an inexplicable warmth in the most unexpected places. Some call it kindness, others call it magic. But the old timers who remember the tale know it simply as “the cherry’s warmth.”