The House of the Floating Island

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It is said that deep in the hidden mist forest, where the sun only pierces the dense treetops in slivers of light, an island floats above the waters—a garden that has arisen from the dreams of nature itself. And on this island stands a house that knows the wind, hears the birdsong, and in whose windows the stars sleep. No one knows who built it. Some say it is an old witch's house; others believe it belongs to a keeper of stories who draws ink from the clouds. But when the morning mist lifts and the island floats above the lake, you can see the red bricks glow, the green shutters open, and the flowers in the meadows dance like tiny sparks of light. One evening, a child who had gotten lost in the forest came to the water's edge. It saw the island drifting slowly across the glassy lake, silent, almost dreaming, while the lotus blossoms on the water seemed to move with it. A small bridge of light grew from the shore up to the floating roots, and without hesitation the child stepped onto it. At the top, she was greeted by the scent of roses and lavender, the chirping of birds sleeping in the branches of the small garden. The house opened its door as if by itself, and inside it was warm, full of books, maps, and bottles of sparkles. "This is the place," whispered a gentle voice from the fireplace, "where stories grow that no man has ever told." The child sat by the window, looked out at the cloud forest, and as the island drifted slowly onward, she knew: every night she would return here to find new stories—stories that bloom like flowers, on an island that never touches the ground.