The little fairy

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 sentences, and then into sentences that transform into stories.  

But the fairy does not merely create; she curates. Her tales are stored in luminous jars—glass vessels that shimmer with an inner light, each glowing with its own hue. Each jar is carefully labeled and named: “Dreams,” “The Hills Beyond,” “The Jingling of Sheep Bells,” “The Silhouette of Long-Gone Friends.” These are not just titles; they are portals. Each jar, when opened, releases a rush of images and emotions, memories and possibilities.  

Some jars carry tales of the hills that roll like great green waves in distant lands, their slopes bathed in morning light and whispering secrets to the wind. Others release the soft sound of bells tied around the white necks of sheep as they graze peacefully in hidden valleys, the sound so gentle it seems like music only the earth can hear. There are jars that hold silhouettes—familiar yet unplaceable shapes that walk the line between memory and imagination. A figure glimpsed at dusk, perhaps, or a face remembered only for its tenderness, a face that belongs to someone lost to time.  

And then there are the tales of dreams—stories that spill over like starlight and blur the line between waking and sleeping. They are filled with strange beauty: vast oceans that stretch forever, skies the color of lavender, and the soft sound of footsteps in the snow that no one else seems to hear. The fairy knows that dreams are where magic is born, and so she weaves them with extra care, adding just enough wonder to make them feel real.  

It is this work—the weaving, the crafting, the storytelling—that fills me with awe. The tiny fairy does not rest. Her work is ceaseless, tireless. She spins not only from what I read but also from the life I have lived. With every book I open, with every poem I cherish, she awakens further, her energy growing stronger, her spindle spinning faster. It is as though the stories I consume nourish her, and in return, she gives me something precious: the ability to see beauty in the quiet corners of the world, to find wonder in fleeting moments, and to hold close the intangible things that words alone can express.  

Through her work, the fairy transforms the mundane into the extraordinary. A simple sentence becomes a melody; a paragraph becomes a memory. Her magic transcends the boundaries of the written page, spilling into my own imagination and inspiring me to dream beyond what I know. I often wonder how many stories she has spun and stored in her glowing jars, how many tales are waiting to be told, and how many wonders remain undiscovered.  

Perhaps this is why I am left gasping for more every time I read something beautiful—because I can feel her there, spinning her invisible threads, coaxing magic from the most ordinary of words. She reminds me that stories are not just entertainment; they are life itself. They are the echoes of who we are, the shadows of who we were, and the dreams of who we might become.  

And so, I read not just to escape but to awaken. I read to feel that flutter of wings, to see that tiny, sad, old fairy at work, her face illuminated by the soft glow of her jars. I read because, in her weaving, she offers me something irreplaceable: the power to believe in magic again, to dream freely, and to see the world through the eyes of a storyteller.  

In the end, her stories—delicate, wistful, and enchanting—are not just tales. They are reminders that beauty exists everywhere, if only we take the time to look and listen. And so I carry her with me, this little weaver of words, grateful for the way she stirs my soul awake, time and time again.