A long, long time ago, the world was a much different place.

There were secrets hidden in the crevices of small streets lining the tiniest of Indian villages.

There were whispers that ran up the sides of mountains in the Himalayas, and there were wishes that circled the world over and over again--searching for their destinies.

These secrets and whispers and wishes were part of a grand design. They were the last vestiges of magic. The remnants and reminders of what is possible and what can be.

Over the years these occurrences have lessened, allowing most to believe that the magicks are gone, that they simply no longer exist. They are wrong. There is still a place where magicks exist, where a wish can come true simply by believing.

Beneath the mists of forgotten dreams--nestled under loves forlorn and wishes never wished for--there is magic. In the icy white wonderland where the penguins play, there are still wishes left to wish.

The penguins, seemingly just black and white, are so much more. They are the last magical creatures of the Earth. Through ritual and tradition, the remaining magicks are made into wishes--which each penguin gives up to the sky--wishing their wish through the clouds and up towards the heavens where they are told they hide and find their destiny behind the moon.

But this is not the story of tradition, nor of those wishes that have all but been wished away. This is the story of one penguin who will not abandon her wish to chance.