Behind the door, the sound of heavy snow and late light falling. You press your ear to the wood.
Something brushes past, behind the door. Something with many limbs. Rapid rap-tap-tap flapping of skin. You do not go in.
This is the wishing room, a passerby tells you, brushing her mane back with ragged talon. Wishes live here, die here; breed and stalk and maim and cower here. If you find your wishes, you may take them home; but you must find all three, and only three, before the sun sets in the wishing room.
You do not go in.