On the edge of a quiet town, nestled between two bustling streets, stood a little bookstore called The Lantern’s Shelf. It was neither modern nor flashy, but its warm wooden scent and dust-kissed shelves carried the calm of a hundred winters and the laughter of a thousand stories.

Twelve-year-old Riya often wandered there after school, seeking refuge from the noise of the world. She wasn’t popular, nor particularly outgoing, but she had something others didn't—a hunger for stories and a heart that listened.

One rainy afternoon, as thunder rolled like distant drums, Riya spotted an odd, leather-bound book on the bottom shelf. It bore no title, just a golden feather embossed on the cover. Curious, she pulled it out. The moment her fingers touched the spine, a whisper echoed in her ear: “I’ve been waiting.”

Startled, she looked around. The store was empty. She opened the book. The pages were blank—until the ink began to rise, curling into sentences as if written by an unseen hand.

"Dear Riya,
Some people find friends in playgrounds, some in cafés, but you—you're about to find one in me. I’m not just a book. I’m every story you need. Tell me your day, and I’ll tell you a tale that makes it lighter.”

Heart pounding with wonder, Riya spoke softly into the quiet shop. “I felt alone again today.”

The ink moved: “Once upon a time, there was a girl who could hear the wind's secrets. While others mocked her, the wind told her she was brave…”

Each visit, the book listened. It shared stories of lost kings, talking rivers, invisible lions, and children who saved worlds with kindness. And with each tale, Riya grew lighter. Happier. Stronger.

She stopped needing the approval of classmates. She smiled more. Even her teachers noticed the sparkle in her voice when she read aloud.

Years passed. The bookstore aged but never faded. The book remained—its pages still alive. Riya, now older, became a writer, weaving stories for children who needed friends in quiet corners.

But every time she passed The Lantern’s Shelf, she’d whisper, “Thank you,” to the golden-feathered book that once whispered first. Because sometimes, the best friend doesn’t talk back. Sometimes, it listens in ink.