The Dusty Book of Fairy Tales

 Once upon a time there was a book of fairy tales lying on a shelf in an attic. It was dusty because it had never been opened, which was of great sorrow to a book that very desperately wanted to be read. For years and years it sent out the most wishful and hopeful thoughts that it could — which is the only thing that a book can do if it wants to be read.

    One day a very little girl made her way up into the attic.

    At once, the book was ecstatic, holding between its pages the thought that it was soon to be read. But, alas, the little girl did not even notice the book. There was an old dusty rocking horse that was ridden, a wooden toy train that was wheeled about, and an old picture album whose pages were turned. And then the little girl left the room.

    The book's thoughts sank very low, then

    The book thought then that this was the very lowest it could ever feel.

    But it didn't count on the next day, when the little girl made her way up into the old attic again, and again paid the book no mind. That this happened the day after that, and even the day after that, made the book realize that there was a lot of room within its pages to feel sadder still. It was enough to make it give up hope.

    Only it couldn't quite.

    Not yet. 

    There was still a flickering thought within the book that thought: maybe.

    When the last day of the week came, the little girl looked around the attic and her eyes fell on the dusty book. Her eyes lit as she swept it off. And as she snuggled down in a corner and began to turn its pages, the book's spirits were as high as they had ever been.

    It was a good thing that the book had held fast to its hope — for who knows what would have happened if the little girl hadn't felt the invisible, almost imperceptible tendrils of the books flickering hope.

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