We Don’t Live by the Days That Pass, But by the Hearts We Touch Along the Way.

Though she sat peacefully in the corner, her small fingers were dancing across the laptop keys while the school corridors buzzed with the usual lunchtime chaos. I walked towards her, asking, what are you working on?

Finishing a story, she answered softly. Then she looked at me with shining eyes. Do you read animated stories? No, I admitted.

Her voice was full of passion while saying, You should! She turned the laptop screen towards me, showing vibrant characters she had designed herself, each one alive with personality and color.

What is your story about? I asked.

A slow smile curved her lips. Do you like mystery novels? She leaned in slightly, her voice dropping to a whisper. Don’t say I didn’t warn you; mine has human testing, murder… and demons.

I stared at this delicate twelve-year-old girl, her innocence belying the dark brilliance of her imagination. Would you like to read it? she asked.

I’d love to, I said, my heart swelling with admiration.

The next day, she appeared at my office door, holding a printed manuscript like a sacred offering. Will you tell me what you think? She asked, her voice trembling with anticipation.

With pleasure, I promised.

That night, I lost myself in her words. Page after page, her story gripped me.

The following day, she lingered near my path, her eyes searching mine, silently pleading for validation.

I smiled at her and asked, have you ever read anything by J.K. Rowling? Harry Potter?

She said no.

I said, You should. Your imagination reminds me of hers.

Her face lit up as I told her, one day, the whole world will know your name.