The library was my safe space as a child. While other kids ran to the playground, I ran to bookshelves, losing myself in pages filled with adventures.
One day, I was waiting in line to check out my favorite book—one I had already read three times but couldn’t get enough of. As I stepped forward, I noticed a little girl, maybe six or seven, peeking over the counter, watching me with wide eyes.
She looked nervous, her fingers twisting into the hem of her dress.
Curious, I asked, “Do you like this book?”
She nodded eagerly but didn’t say anything.
“Do you want to borrow it?”
She hesitated. “I… I don’t have a card yet,” she whispered.
I looked at the book in my hands. It was mine to take. But something inside me knew it wasn’t really mine—it was meant to be shared.
Without a second thought, I placed the book back on the counter.
“You can take it first,” I told her. “I’ll borrow it next time.”
Her face lit up like I had given her the world. She grabbed the book, holding it to her chest like a treasure, and ran off.
That day, I learned that stories aren’t just meant to be read. Sometimes, they’re meant to be given.