The Tale of the Endless Friend

Photo by on

Once, in a village perched on the edge of a misty forest, there lived a woman known simply as Alma the Friend.

Alma had a peculiar gift, or perhaps it was a curse — it depended on who you asked. She had the ability to split herself into as many pieces as she liked, each one a perfect, shimmering copy of the whole.

She could stand in one place and in a hundred places at once, a friend to anyone who needed her, anywhere in the village and sometimes beyond.

Whenever anyone called for her — Alma, my roof leaks!, Alma, my heart aches! — she would appear, smiling and attentive, her presence as comforting as a fire on a winter night.

She would listen to their sorrows, celebrate their joys, mend their broken chairs and broken spirits alike.

She was everywhere, always.

People loved her, in their own way. They called her selfless, tireless, the perfect friend. They marvelled at her many forms, each one shimmering with sincerity. Alma never seemed to mind being pulled in all directions at once. In fact, she seemed almost proud of it, as if she were proving some point known only to herself.

But there was one thing no one knew: every time she split herself, each part grew just a little dimmer. Just the tiniest bit less real. And so, as the years went…