Sheenah couldn't get the old man's words out of her mind as she made her way home, the mysterious book clutched tightly to her chest. The city's evening bustle faded into the background as she replayed the encounter in her head. There was something about that little bookshop—tucked away between a bakery and a thrift store, its windows fogged with age and mystery—that made it feel like a place out of time, or perhaps out of a dream.
She remembered the way the bell above the door chimed, not with the sharpness of modern shops, but with a gentle, almost musical note that lingered in the air. The scent inside was a mix of old paper, polished wood, and something faintly floral, as if wildflowers had been pressed between the pages of every book. Even now, hours later, Sheenah could still smell it on her hands.
As she walked up the stairs to her apartment, she found herself wishing she'd asked the old man more questions. What was the name of the shop? How long had he been there? Was he always so generous with his favorite books, or had he seen something in her—a kindred spirit, perhaps, or just a lonely girl who needed a little magic?
She set her bag down and sat on the edge of her bed, the book resting in her lap. She traced the embossed letters on the cover, her fingers lingering over the faded gold. It felt heavier than it should, as if it carried not just a story, but a secret. She wondered how many people had held it before her, and what the old man had meant when he said it was a gift from someone dear.
Why did he give it to me? she thought, a strange warmth blooming in her chest. Does he do this for everyone, or was there something different about today?
She opened the book, promising herself she'd only read a chapter before bed. But the story swept her away, and soon she was lost in its world—icy castles, ancient curses, and a Duke whose loneliness felt all too familiar.
Sheenah drifted off to sleep with the book open on her chest, the old man's words echoing in her mind:
"Those who never believe in magic, never find it."
A gentle knock at the door broke her concentration. It was Leah, carrying a small bag and a bright smile.
"Hey, I thought I'd stay over tonight. You looked like you could use some company," Leah said, stepping inside.
Sheenah smiled, grateful for the familiar presence. "Perfect timing. I was just reading this incredible story. Want to join me?"
Leah settled in beside her, and soon the two friends were sharing the book's tale, discussing the characters and the twists that kept them on edge.
"It's so tragic, but there's something hopeful about it too," Sheenah said, her eyes shining. "I wish I could change the ending."
Leah nodded. "Maybe that's the magic of stories—they let us imagine new possibilities."
As the night deepened, they moved to the living room, blankets and pillows scattered around. They watched movies, laughed over silly scenes, and shared stories of their own dreams and fears. The warmth of friendship filled the room, pushing back the shadows of loneliness.
Between the flickering images on the screen and the quiet comfort of shared moments, Sheenah felt a spark of something new—hope, courage, and the belief that maybe, just maybe, magic was real.
When the clock finally ticked past midnight Leah fall asleep, Sheenah glanced at the blue moon glowing softly outside her window. The book lay on the table, its cover faintly shimmering, as if waiting for what was to come.
With a contented sigh, she settled back, ready to face whatever the next chapter might bring—both in the story and in her own life.