The House Under the Mushroom Roof

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At the edge of the forest, where the treetops touched each other in bright red and gold, stood a small house that immediately caught the eye of every hiker. Its roof arched like the cap of a toadstool, dotted with white dots, as if the sky itself had dropped its stars onto it. The round door was painted turquoise, and a small window shimmered warmly, like a heart that never went out. The sound of the nearby waterfalls accompanied the house like an eternal song. Many had seen this place, but few dared to knock. For everyone knew: Here lived Marilla, the keeper of forest tales. Marilla was no ordinary creature. Some called her a witch, others a fairy, but in truth, she was something in between—or perhaps something else entirely. She was small, with a cloak of moss and leaves that changed color with the seasons. On her head, she wore a hat she had once woven from mushroom tissue. Her smile was soft, and when she spoke, one listened to her as if one could also hear the breath of the forest. That autumn evening, Marilla sat on the bench in front of her door. An empty book lay in her hands, but she knew it would soon be filled. For every hiker who rested here unconsciously left their story behind. A young girl came along the path. Her clothes were dusty, and her shoes bore the marks of long journeys. She seemed uncertain, but when she saw the house, her eyes lit up. "May I sit down?" she asked, almost in a whisper. Marilla nodded, and together they gazed at the water cascading down the rocks in silver veils. They were silent for a while, then the girl spoke: "They say you collect stories. But why? They'll vanish if no one tells them." Marilla placed her hand on the book. "Stories are seeds. They wait, sometimes for a very long time. But even in the barrenest soil, they can grow. What has once been told finds its way—whether in songs, in dreams, or in the silent hearts of people." Then the girl began to speak. She told of cities made of gray stone, of roads that stretched endlessly, and of a quest she herself did not yet understand. With each word, symbols shimmered on the pages of the book. As if invisible ink had been waiting, it began to glow, transforming the emptiness into images and sentences. Night fell. Lanterns lit in the branches above them, as if the stars had decided to come closer. The forest whispered, the flowers along the path closed their cups, and the waterfalls now sang like a distant melody. When the girl finally fell silent, she felt lighter, as if she had laid down a burden she had carried for a long time. "And what happens to my story now?" she asked. Marilla closed the book gently. "It stays.