In the sleepy village of Chandpur, nestled between misty hills and whispering trees, lived a boy named Aarav. He was quiet and curious, often found sketching birds or scribbling dreams in the last pages of his notebooks. His family was poor, and he owned only one pen—its ink nearly dry.

One rainy afternoon, while exploring his grandfather’s old trunk in the attic, Aarav found a strange, glimmering pen wrapped in a silk cloth. The pen felt warm in his hand, as if it were alive. Etched on its side were the words: “Write wisely, for your words shall become the world.”

He laughed, thinking it a poetic joke. But that night, he wrote, “I wish tomorrow's sky would rain mangoes,” and went to bed smiling.

The next morning, the village woke up to a shower—not of water, but of ripe, golden mangoes tumbling from the sky. People ran outside, cheering and laughing, scooping up the sweet fruit. Aarav watched in disbelief, clutching the pen. It was real. The pen was magical.

Day after day, he wrote small wishes—clean water for the wells, books for the school, medicine for the sick. Every word came true. The village blossomed with joy and hope. Aarav became a silent guardian of happiness.

But one evening, in a moment of frustration after a fight with a friend, he angrily scribbled, “Let everyone forget me!” and threw the pen aside.

The next morning, no one remembered Aarav. Not his parents, not his teachers, not even the friend he had quarreled with. He wandered the village like a ghost, unseen and unheard.

It was then he understood—the pen obeyed without judgment.

Heartbroken, Aarav returned to the attic and wrote one final line: “Let the world remember kindness, not the writer.”

The magic faded. The pen turned to ash.

But the kindness Aarav had sparked lived on in Chandpur. And though his name was lost to time, the village still tells tales of a boy who once turned words into wonders.