A bedtime story for my sister

Once upon a time there was a little girl who played with the wolves. In deep, dark nights she ran out into the forest, bare feet skipping in spiraling snow, to tell them of her life. Stories of family and teddy bears, of hot milk and warm hugs and bedtime stories, of flickering candles and fairies kissing her nose. She spoke of wonders and magic in the simplest things, only seen by a child, and the wolves were in awe. Night after night they would sit and listen to her speak of her world and until the snow was caressed by gold. And the wolf princess grew, and with each day, she discovered more and more beautiful things, enchanted with the world. Now, many people say that when one grows up, the magic fades away for logic to take its place. But as the wolf princess grew tall and beautiful, and more in love with the world than she had ever been. She welcomed logic for the miracle it was and saw wonders in the simplest things. Still the wolf princess, now a queen, told the wolves her stories, of fights and fairies and snow, but as she had grown up, they had grown old. Tired and gray they didn’t care for her tales, but they did care for her and night after night gathered around her in the snow. Under shadowy trees dripping with shadow and night, she stood tall and strong. The stories that had once been so much bigger than her had become her song.


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