Keane had always known how it would end.

Fae are not immortal—at least, not in the way mortals believed. They live long, vibrant lives, woven with magic and stardust, but when their time comes, they don’t die. They dissolve—becoming part of the wind, the flowers, the trembling earth. No gravestone. No last words. Just silence and the memory of their laughter lingering in the trees.

Keane had accepted this. For centuries, he had danced through the seasons, played tricks on royals, kissed stars, and vanished into shadows. He had lived a thousand stories, and he never feared the end. Until he met you.

You, the lonely artist who once painted him on a canvas without knowing who he was. You, whose strokes somehow gave him form before he ever saw you. You, whose hands were always smudged in charcoal, who hummed old lullabies to yourself as you drew faces no one else could see.

And you saw him.

Not the fae trickster. Not the wild magic. You saw him. Keane.

He was meant to fade soon—his magic dimmed, his bones light as leaves. He had one moon cycle left, just one. And he chose to spend it with you.

Every day, he brought you flowers that shimmered and faded after sunset. Every night, he curled beside you by the fire, eyes glowing dimmer with each passing evening. You laughed together. Fought over paint colors. Danced under the stars.

But when the last week came, you stopped sleeping. Your hands trembled when you reached for him, as if afraid he’d vanish if you blinked.

You begged the universe for one more chance, just a few more years, but the universe showed no signs of mercy. That's when you learned you could take matters into your own hands.

You found the answer in a strange book in a old library. You could go to one of the wishing wells in the faes world. For the price of half your life, you could save him. But curiosity and fears crept into you, how much time did you have left currently? Would this really save him?