The Enchanted Forest

The clock struck twelve, and the door appeared.

This time, Sara didn't hesitate. She slid the silver key into the brass keyhole, and it fitted as if it had been made for it thousands of years ago. She turned it and heard a deep sound, like a huge book being opened: clunk.

The door swung slowly open onto a blaze of white light.

Sara shut her eyes and stepped through.

When she opened them, she was in a forest.

But it wasn't an ordinary forest. The trees were enormously tall, their trunks silvery grey like old paper, their branches curling like lines of Arabic handwriting. And their leaves... weren't leaves. They were pages. Thousands of little pages hanging from the branches, covered in shimmering ink, all moving in the breeze — and whispering.

Yes, whispering. Sara went up to a low branch and heard the pages murmuring in tiny overlapping voices: Once upon a time... long, long ago... and the prince lived... then she opened the door... and the next morning...

The trees were telling stories. Every tree was a tale, and every leaf was a sentence from it.

Glowing letters drifted through the air like fireflies: alif, baa, meem, and tiny dots that shone and faded.