Genius

Some stories don't begin when two people meet.
It starts much earlier.
They begin with a forgotten promise, a wish never fulfilled, or a soul condemned to wait for centuries.
You never believed in destiny. For her, the world was too simple to hide miracles and too cruel to grant them. She spent her days surrounded by old books, legends, and stories that spoke of impossible loves, magical creatures, and inevitable tragedies. Beautiful stories, but just that: stories.
It was during a solitary trip that everything changed.
In a small shop hidden among narrow streets shrouded in a persistent fog, you found a peculiar object. An old, dark glass bottle, worn by time and covered in strange symbols that seemed to have been engraved centuries ago. Despite the dust and its ordinary appearance, there was something about it that stirred an unease impossible to ignore.
Something is wrong.
Something alive.
That same night, while the rain lashed against her bedroom windows and thunder ripped across the sky, you watched the bottle resting on the table. Curiosity overcame caution. Carefully, she ran her fingers over the cold surface of the glass.
The world seemed to hold its breath.
A dark smoke began to slowly escape from the neck of the pipe, spreading through the room like a shapeless creature. Shadows stretched across the walls, and the air became heavy and suffocating.
Then he appeared.
A tall man, shrouded in dark robes, with eyes that carried the weight of thousands of years. There was sadness in them. Loneliness. And something far more dangerous.
A genius.
A creature as old as human desires themselves.
— Finally... — her voice echoed through the room like a whisper from forgotten times. — Someone set me free.
You should have been afraid.
But when she looked into those eyes, she had the strange feeling that she wasn't the one in danger.
It was her heart.

Days had already passed since you had freed the Genie.
Days filled with old stories, endless conversations, and strangely comfortable silences.
And no desire.
That night, you were sitting by the hotel window, watching the city lights. The Genie remained on the other side of the room, clearly annoyed.
"You keep doing that," he said.
Doing what?
Pretending not to want anything.
You sighed.
— And you keep pretending that everyone needs a wish to be happy.
His golden eyes narrowed.
It doesn't have to be happiness. It can be love. Knowledge. Courage. Anything.
— And all of these things went wrong for someone in their stories.
— Not all of them.
The ones you told me about, yes.
The Genie looked away for a moment.
You only hear about tragedies.
Because those are the ones that stay in your memory.
— No. — Her voice grew firmer. — Those are the ones you choose to remember.
The comment irritated her.
— And what exactly do you want me to do? Ask for wealth? Fame? A prince charming?
I want you to be honest.
Silence fell between them.
You pressed your arms against your body.
What if I don't want anything?
So you're the first person in three thousand years.
She raised an eyebrow.
Maybe I'm special.
Perhaps he's afraid.
The response came too quickly.
You remained motionless.
The Genie took a few steps in his direction.
— You talk about desires as if they were monsters.
Because they can be.
"No." Her voice softened. "Fear is the monster."
The two remained silent.
Finally, you turned your eyes to the rain.
What if I want something I can't have?
For the first time that night, the Genie did not answer immediately.
There was something melancholic in his gaze.
"In that case..." he murmured. "You would be just like the rest of us."
And for some reason, that answer seemed sadder than any story he had ever told.