The Archivist gave me a hint I couldn’t shake. For two days it echoed quietly inside me. So today, once again, I found myself heading toward Joy Meadow. I wore my new favorite dress. No basket this time — this walk wasn’t for gathering. It was for me.
I stepped out of the house and smiled gently at the sun. Only in Lavillia does the sun feel truly kind — not blinding, not burning, not hiding behind clouds. Just warm, open, quietly joyful. Its rays reached in every direction, leaping from dewdrop to dewdrop, warming each leaf and petal. It created an endless scattering of tiny rainbows all around. I wondered — does anyone else notice them?
I breathed in the scent of the rose that bloomed this morning. If I could, I would bottle it and make it my perfume. The thought made me smile — and reminded me of Witch Fina, who lives near Floral Street and is said to specialize in flower magic.
I walked through my garden, now quietly gaining magical vibrations. I closed the gate behind me and took the path that runs between the river and the trees. As I crossed the bridge, I glanced at the waterfall tumbling loudly from the cliffs and waved toward the lighthouse, hoping my lighthouse keeper was looking down just then — and saw me.
The streets began. First Riversea, with its salty breeze. Then Astoria, noble and full of secrets. I passed through the park and promised to return in the evening with my family. Then finally — Joy Meadow. The gates were already open. Shutters creaked awake. Shop windows filled with light. Counters filled with bread and sweets. There may be few things more beautiful than a town beginning its day. And if there are — I haven’t found them yet. But not now. I had a purpose.
I walked through the market, past the shops and workshops, turned toward the Cloud Chairs — and saw it. The house with no sign. The door always closed. A display window cluttered with who-knows-what. Yes, this was the place.
The door, as expected, was closed. I would’ve walked past like everyone else. But I knew its secret. So I pressed gently against the wood — the door with no handle — and it opened inward.
It closed behind me. Inside, shelves lined the walls, filled with boxes, paper bags, envelopes, and things I couldn’t name. In the middle of the room — a velvet chair. I sat down. Remarkably comfortable, I thought. Rare to find a chair that gets it just right.
I closed my eyes. Exhaled everything. And simply felt… at ease. When I opened my eyes, a large box sat on my lap. I wanted to panic, to leave it. But curiosity won.
Inside was a beautiful gift. And a note:
"For you, dear Storyteller."
It felt good. To receive.
And the moment I let that feeling settle — it happened.
All around me, boxes and packages and envelopes began to lower themselves gently from the shelves and arrange themselves at my feet.
Once, I would’ve panicked. Wondered what it meant. How. Why. What now.
But not this time. Only one thought came:
"So many… and all for me. How will I carry them?"
A second door opened. From the back of the room, a gentle figure emerged — the Keeper.
“You’ve finally come to claim what’s yours,” he said softly.
“I have,” I replied, smiling. “But there’s so much… I can’t carry it all.”
“No need to worry, dear Storyteller. Storage comes with delivery. I’ll draw up a schedule for you. Few collect as much as you have. It’ll take time, but it will arrive.”
That evening, the first delivery reached my home. Among beautiful furniture and sweet, comforting things was a thick envelope. On it, written in careful handwriting:
“Payment for the Storyteller. For all the years of writing magic.”
That’s how my life shifted to a completely different level.
Written by the Storyteller, after a visit that changed everything.
Shelest Lesa
The Storyteller's Grove
