There are moments when reading becomes more than just the act of consuming words. It becomes an awakening. As I turn the pages of a book or linger on the lines of a poem, I feel something stir deep within me—a soft, almost imperceptible flutter. It is as though a tiny, old fairy, long asleep, rises from her slumber. She is a being made of quiet magic and ancient sorrow, her presence both delicate and profound. This fairy, who lives somewhere in the chambers of my soul, awakens with the sheer force of the beauty I encounter, brought to life by the words that weave themselves into my mind. I imagine her vividly—small, ethereal, a weaver of tales and dreams. Her hands, graceful and wise, spin invisible threads of language on a spindle crafted from moonlight and memory. She gathers the finest yarn from forgotten corners of the universe—threads of joy, threads of loss, threads of longing—and works with quiet devotion. With every twist of her spindle, she breathes life into words that become...