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Artist
No one knows exactly who built it – this library in the middle of the forest, among the mossy trees and the shadows of time. Some say it simply grew, like a mushroom after a warm rain. The shelves of creaking wood bend under the weight of forgotten stories, the books murmur softly in their sleep as the wind brushes the pages.
The fox, an old librarian with silver glasses, slumbers daily in the corner between two encyclopedias of cloud shapes. He doesn't watch over the books – the books watch over him.
Sometimes the stories come out at night. They sneak through the leaves, sit beside weary hikers, and whisper dreams into their ears. When the mist hangs between the trees like ink in water, the pages open like wings.
Only those who find the way with an open heart may read what has not yet been written.
