But that’s not true.
They aren’t sold there. No one charges you. The woman who runs the place—a nearly invisible figure behind the counter—makes no promises of miracles. She simply gives you the tools: a blank slip of paper, a pen, a piece of string. And one very clear instruction: write your wish as if it has already come true. In the past. Or the present. But never in the future. And don’t forget to add a date. Because if you don’t say when, it might never arrive.
Then, you hang it on the outer wall. You ring a bell. And you wait.
It seems like a game. But it isn’t.
Over 50,000 wishes now hang from that wall. Little white papers swaying in the breeze, as if fate were reading them one by one. Maybe it is. Maybe someone—or something—is reading them. And slowly granting them, in its own time.
A Living Room Disguised as a Shop
The shop doesn’t feel like a shop. It’s more like a living room: a cold fireplace, a large mirror, a heater, red curtains that barely let the light through. And clocks. Lots of clocks. As if to remind you that time matters. That wishes have an expiration date.
On the center table, small golden keys are for sale. Each has a tag: love, work, patience, money. There are also books with titles that promise to teach you how to wish better.
On a shelf to the left, there are old photos of Madrid. Each one with a phrase. Not just any phrase. These, the owner says, are fulfilled wishes. One shows the Royal Palace: “It was King Philip V’s wish.” Another, the Almudena Cathedral: “Alfonso XII wanted it.” Further down, the Prado Museum: “María Isabel of Braganza dreamed it first.”
Wishes on the Wind
Outside, the storefront is a white mass of hanging papers. Mostly tourists stop to look, to read, to write their own. Some do it without thinking too much. Others, silently, as if confessing a secret.
The wishes are humble. Human. One reads: “I wish that in 2025 my aunt turns 100 and is in good health.” There are messages in every language—as if happiness spoke with a global accent. Health, love, work. Some add peace, calm. And you realize: that’s what we all want.
The messages have no names. They don’t need them. Whoever grants them—a star, a god, destiny—already knows who they belong to. One asks to reunite with a distant love. Another wants to stay friends with someone forever. And one more, short and direct:
“I want health, peace, success, and happiness.”