The rain taps a relentless rhythm against your bedroom window. It’s late, and the blue glow of your laptop screen illuminates the clutter on your desk.

Sitting dead center, right where you left it after bringing it home from that estate sale this afternoon, is the box.

It’s about the size of a jewelry box, made of cheap, faded plastic designed to look like polished mahogany. On the front, faded gold lettering reads: "The One Wish Willow."​ Below that is a single, slightly worn red button.

You bought it as a joke. A stupid, vintage piece of junk. But sitting here in the quiet of your room, you swear you can hear a faint, almost imperceptible humming coming from inside the casing. It’s probably just a broken battery terminal. Probably.

Your phone suddenly buzzes on the desk, vibrating violently against the wood. It's a text message from a blocked number.

What are you waiting for?

The room feels suddenly, suffocatingly quiet. What do you do?