Once upon an autumn eve, when twilight began its gentle descent, an aged book lay open on a wooden table. Its pages, yellowed by the kisses of scattered years, whispered secrets to the stillness of the room.
A young girl, no taller than the whispers themselves, peered closely, her fingers tracing paths through the ink as if to grasp tales spun of forgotten dreams.
Time folded over itself; she lost track, as did the book. Each hour a mere shadow, slipping through the cracks of reality as doodles in the margins grew sentient, wrapping around her like strands of time-tethering whispers.
Words became woven like threads in a tapestry of thoughts. The girl, no longer merely a reader but a part of the yarn spun by the book, felt the stories breathe along with her.