The first line that appeared was soft as a sigh: “Once, in a forest where the trees remembered names, a little fox named Pippin could not find his way home.” The letters shimmered like moonlight and curled across the page, and Mira watched, wide-eyed, as tiny illustrations unfurled—a silver fox with bright, curious eyes and a scarf knotted like a question.

The book did not simply show words; it seemed to breathe them. Each sentence tugged gently at the air, and a warm, ink-sweet scent rose from the page. Mira felt a quiet happiness settle in her chest, the kind that arrives when a story remembers you. As the last line wrote itself, the page shivered and a small, ribbon-thin trail of letters drifted off the paper like a path leading away.