On a soft, moonlit night, a little child named Mira curled under a warm blanket with a tiny lamp by the bedside. The house was still; outside, crickets sang and the stars blinked like sleepy eyes. Tucked beneath the pillow was an old, leather-bound book Mira had found earlier that day in the attic, its cover etched with a twining vine and a single silver star.

Mira had never seen writing appear on a page by itself, but something about this book felt different. It hummed as if it held a small, joyful secret. With a gentle breath, Mira opened the cover—and the room seemed to lean in to listen.