The ribbon-thin trail of letters floated like tiny lanterns across the floor and through the crack of the open window. Outside, the garden was washed in silver, and the flowers seemed to bow as the letters drifted past a sleeping stone frog and over a row of quiet marigolds. Mira sat very still, her breath small and steady, listening as the letters sighed secrets of places where stories lived.

On the last line that had written itself, a single sentence curled into being: “If you follow, you may meet a friend who needs your help.” The words wavered like a distant bell. Mira’s heart fluttered with a gentle bravery—part of her wanted to step onto the moonlit path and the other part wanted to stay wrapped in the warmth of her blanket.

She reached for the book, feeling the soft hum beneath her fingers. The book did not demand anything; it only offered the choice, like a doorway waiting to be opened. Mira kept the page open and listened, knowing that tomorrow’s dreams would begin with the decision she made tonight.