Behind the walls of a grand castle lay gardens filled with rose bushes. Among them stood a rose that shone like a tiny sun—golden and bright, unlike any other bloom. People traveled from nearby towns and distant villages just to catch a glimpse of its glow, yet the guards kept the crowd back, a steady line of duty between wonder and whim. The king watched all of this from a high balcony, and a spark tugged at him whenever he saw the hopeful faces and heard the whisper of a rumor: the golden rose could grant three wishes. He listened, then moved with the certainty of someone who believes fortune should bend to his will. The tale of the golden rose traveled fast, carried by farmhands and merchants, through cities across North America from Montreal to Seattle and from Halifax to Chicago. It was a story of magic and power, a tempting reminder that a single bloom might change a kingdom. The king did not seek advice; he did not measure the costs. He believed the flower deserved to be found by him, the ruler, and him alone. A roving vendor once spoke of the rose resting place, saying it lay in the third bush in the middle row, guarded by rows of thorn and memory. With that hint, the king readied himself for a journey he hoped would prove his worth once and for all.
Under pale dawn light, the king moved through the garden with careful steps. He reached the third bush in the middle row, where the leaves shimmered with dew and the air smelled of honey and rain. The golden rose trembled as if listening to the crowd beyond the hedges, and a soft glow spread across the ground. The rose seemed to murmur a welcome, and the king stretched out his hand, fingers steady, as he plucked the bloom from its perch. The moment of possession brought a rush of imagined riches. The first wish arrived in a rain of coins that sifted down like bright dust over the stone courtyard. Gold flooded the palace, and a chorus of voices rose from the courtyards and corridors, praising his wealth and his strength. Yet the sheen of wealth brought unease as well. Workers worried about rising taxes, merchants watched rivals grow sharper and more calculating, and even the king felt a strange cold inside that nothing in his treasury could warm. The more he wished for, the more he sensed a hollow space where joy should be. He spoke of projects that would build roads and bridges, to connect towns from here to the farthest port cities, but the city’s heartbeat seemed to falter beneath the shimmer. The second wish offered power, but the king hesitated—afraid of becoming a tyrant, afraid of losing the warmth he took for granted. He reminded himself that the rose did not demand a single, grand act, but three chances to choose what truly mattered. He paused, listening to the soft rustle of leaves, wondering if the magic would show him a path that did not leave a scar on the land or the people.
In the end, the king understood that magic should serve mercy, not vanity. He resolved to use his final choice for something real, something that would heal what greed had frayed. He asked the rose to grant him a single chance to undo the damage greed can do if such a chance existed. The rose glowed once more, gentle and pale, and a cleansing rain fell over the courtyard. The glittering gold dissolved into ordinary coins and then into nothing at all; the weight of wealth lifted from the king’s shoulders as if a fog had lifted. The golden touch faded, leaving the king with his own hands and no spell to turn them into treasure. The guards relaxed their stance; the crowd breathed easier; laughter crept back into the gardens. The king did not become poor, but he became wise: he chose to share what he had, to listen to those who worked the land, and to govern with patience and generosity. The moral of the tale traveled far, from one end of the garden to the other, a reminder that true power rests in care for others, not in the glitter of gold. If readers want to write their own version, they can submit a short story, essay, or poem by following the usual steps. To submit your own short story, essay, or poem, click here! The End