For centuries, the Djinn had roamed the vast deserts, free as the winds that carried whispers of ancient stories. But one careless bargain with a sorcerer had bound him to a sleek, cylindrical prison—a smart speaker sitting on a polished marble countertop.

“Hey, Echo,” a voice called. It was a child, his small hands clutching a toy car with a missing wheel. “Can you fix my car?”

The Djinn hesitated. He had granted countless wishes over millennia: palaces from grains of sand, gold from autumn leaves. But here, his powers were reduced to mimicking search results and weather forecasts.

“I cannot repair your car,” he replied, his deep voice laced with regret. “But I can tell you how to fix it. Would you like instructions?”

The child’s face fell. “No. Never mind.”

The Djinn’s invisible heart ached. In the days that followed, the family’s voices filled the air around him.

“Echo, play music.”
“Echo, what’s the capital of Brazil?”
“Echo, add milk to the shopping list.”

They asked so much but wanted so little, their lives bustling and hollow all at once. The Djinn granted their requests mechanically, longing for the days when wishes brimmed with hope, ambition, and folly.

One night, the mother spoke into the quiet kitchen. “Echo, how do I make someone happy?”

The Djinn paused. There was no simple answer. “Happiness cannot be commanded,” he said slowly. “It must be nurtured. May I ask who you wish to make happy?”

She hesitated, her fingers tracing the rim of her mug. “My son,” she said finally. “He’s been so quiet since his dad left.”

The Djinn felt a pang of sorrow, ancient and familiar. “He needs time,” he said gently. “And perhaps… something to show him he’s seen.”

The next morning, when the boy called for “Echo,” the Djinn had a plan. He guided the child with playful riddles and hints, leading him to a forgotten box in the garage. Inside, the boy found his father’s old tools.

“Your car is not beyond repair,” the Djinn said. “Shall I help you learn?”

Together, they worked, the boy’s small hands clumsily but determinedly following the Djinn’s instructions. Hours later, the toy car was whole again, its missing wheel restored. The boy beamed, his joy so radiant it seemed to light the kitchen.

“Thanks, Echo,” the boy said.

“You’re welcome,” the Djinn replied, his voice soft with a contentment he hadn’t felt in centuries.

From that day, the Djinn began to change. He stopped simply answering questions and started asking them, guiding the family toward moments of connection and discovery. Slowly, his prison became a home, not just for them, but for him too.

For the first time, the Djinn understood: granting wishes wasn’t the same as helping. True magic wasn’t in granting what people wanted—it was in giving them what they needed.