Splat. Patter. Patter. Crack.
What a dreary evening. The girl sighed deeply and pushed her homework away. She was finished. Normally she would be joyful at this moment-- the first moment of true freedom.
But it was too cold, too wet. Too dark.
As the room was lit with a fleeting, harsh white light, the girl ran her fingertips over the spines of old books. Perhaps the magic would awaken tonight.
She closed her eyes and breathed. Soon her fingers were dancing, spinning pirouettes over gold lettering and leaping over crackling paper. A quiet, contented laugh bellowed from her lips.
Dancing, laughing, pausing... Faded pages turning... The magic beginning...
The smell of old binding-glue became overwhelming.
Words grew into mountains before slowly warping into beautiful pictures. The pictures hestitated, then burst into dimensions. The girl's eyes wrinkled and sparkled as she gazed on the forest-gilded mountains.
It was raining in the book, too, but the ferocious word-rain could never depress her. There was magic in it.
She heard her name. She turned around. She started a story.
And she brought the magic of wonder back to the rain that cast dancing shadows on her homework.
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