He had taken to making wishes whenever he could.
At the last morning star, on the edges of tarnished coins, along the cracks of bones that split in fires.
It was never enough. No matter how often or how aggressively he wished, his words were never heard, his please went unanswered.
And then one day, he learned why; wishes could not be made on innocent things, innocuous things, like stars and coins and clovers.
Because wishes were granted only by the dead.