Pocket Storytime

  Every night, when the world closed its eyes, Elira stepped through the silver doorway at the edge of sleep. Beyond it lay the Aetheris Realm—a sky suspended in hues of violet and rose-gold, where stars drifted like dandelion seeds and clouds curled like ribbons. Elira was the Sky Weaver, born to braid dreams into constellations. Her fingers spun moonlight into threads, laced with quiet laughter, forgotten lullabies, and whispered wishes. Each star she created carried a dream—some soft and hopeful, others fierce and wild. Tonight, a hush covered the realm like velvet. The Dream Winds were gentle, guiding her hands as she wove a star for a little girl who wished to fly. Feathers shimmered into shape. Wind hummed its secrets. And just like that, a new constellation blinked awake— The Soaring Girl —lighting up the night. Elira smiled. This was her favorite part—not the weaving, but the knowing. Knowing that somewhere, on Earth, a child would awaken with wide eyes and a racing h...

  In a hushed town between hills and memory lived an old balloon vendor called Ravi. Every morning he would sit beside the iron gate of the park with his wooden chest of colorful balloons attached to delicate strings. Children loved him, but it was not just the balloons that won their hearts, it was the tales he murmured with each hue. A small girl called Tara rushed to him one windy afternoon with wide-opened eyes and flushed cheeks. "Can I have the orange one, please?" she requested. Ravi smiled. "Why orange?" "Because it resembles the sun. today, the sun is being kind to us." He gave it to her carefully. "Grasp it firmly. It could try to take flight." She skipped away with a chuckle, the balloon trailing behind her like a tiny sunset on a string. That night, Ravi failed to turn up at his customary location. Nor the following day. Or the following one. Word traveled quietly throughout the town. Ravi, the balloon man, had died in...

  Elin resided in a crooked, creaking cottage on the outskirts of the village of Elderglow, where the gales whistled lullabies and flowers changed color to reflect the mood. She was not talked about for her, but for her paintings. Her paintings glimmered softly, as if they were half-whispering something beyond range to the human ear. Children would occasionally push their ears against her completed paintings and report that they heard laughter, music, and even secrets from the stars. But Elin heard absolutely nothing. Never from her paintings, never from the world. She painted daily, not for acclaim, but simply because it was the one way she was seen. Her fingers seemed to dance by habit, painting where she'd never traveled, faces she'd never met, and skies that were not her own. As the night poured over her studio, infusing it with pale silver from the moon, Elin was seized by an inexplicable tug in her chest — as if memory was struggling to be born. She picked up her ...