The Fantasy Is Us

No one noticed when the bookstore changed.

It stood on the corner of Elm and Briar, its windows always fogged up in winter, its door adorned with a rusted bell that rang a little off-key. “Evermore Books” had been there for generations, though most people passed it without a second glance—too busy with deadlines, dog walks, and dull weather.

But one Thursday afternoon, just as the rain had thinned into mist, thirteen-year-old Elsie wandered inside.

She had not meant to. She was chasing a dog—well, not really a dog, more like a silver blur with paws—that had dashed past her on the sidewalk. She pushed open the crooked door, expecting to find aisles of books and dusty silence.

Instead, she found a dragon.

He was curled by the fireplace, wings tucked in neatly, reading a book titled How to Start a Proper Rebellion. His scales shimmered like galaxies, and he looked up over a pair of glasses perched on his long snout.

“Ah,” he said. “There you are. About time.”

Elsie blinked. “Is this... cosplay?”

The dragon closed his book with a decisive thunk. “No, this is fantasy. There’s a difference.”

“Fantasy?” she asked, stepping inside.

“More than just dragons,” he said, stretching his wings slightly. “Though I do appreciate being a fine example.”

Before she could answer, the shop shimmered. The books shifted. A wall spun like a carousel, revealing a jungle of floating bookshelves. A city hovered midair outside the window, its towers spiraling into clouds. Somewhere nearby, the unmistakable scent of magic—lavender and ozone—touched her nose.

“You’re ready,” the dragon said simply.

“For what?”

“To remember.”

He led her past shelves filled with glowing tomes and through archways held up by pillars of humming crystal. They walked through a meadow in the back of the shop (it hadn’t been there five minutes ago), where butterflies told knock-knock jokes and a river whispered secrets in an ancient tongue.

Elsie followed, her heart thumping. She had always known the world was more. More than homework and plastic smiles. More than rules and reminders to be realistic.

“I always believed magic was real,” she whispered.

“It is,” the dragon said. “But it’s more than spells and sorcerers. It’s the reason behind the quest, not the fireballs. It’s the ache in your chest when you dream bigger than the sky allows.”

They stopped beside a tree whose leaves sang lullabies. Beneath it sat a knight polishing armor, a troll braiding wildflowers into his beard, and a small girl who looked suspiciously like Elsie, years younger, nose deep in a book.

“That’s you,” the dragon said gently. “Before the world told you fantasy was make-believe.”

Elsie knelt down. The little girl glanced up, grinned, and vanished in a puff of glitter and wind.

“She’s still inside you,” the dragon said. “The dreamer. You were never meant to trade her for spreadsheets.”

Tears welled up in Elsie’s eyes. “What is this place?”

He smiled. “It’s the truth.”

It is more than just magic, the space seemed to whisper around her. It is imagination, stretching itself like a sleeping giant. An enormity untapped.

He led her back to the bookstore's front door, which now shimmered like heat on pavement.

“Will I remember this?” she asked.

He shrugged, amused. “That depends on whether you let them convince you it didn’t happen.”

As she stepped outside, the sky seemed brighter. Not because the sun had returned—but because something in her had reawakened.

She turned back to the shop, but the door had vanished. In its place stood a wall of brick, ivy creeping up its surface.

But the dragon’s voice echoed in her mind: The fantasy is you. It always was.

From that day on, Elsie didn’t just live in the world—she saw it. She noticed the way tree branches reached like dancers, the quiet kindness in strangers’ smiles, the way stories stitched meaning into the fabric of the everyday.

She began writing them down.

Stories with dragons who read, and girls who remembered. Stories where the smallest spark of wonder ignited galaxies.

Because, in the end, it wasn’t make-believe at all.

It was the truth we forget.

It was the reminder that we are not corners or machinery or beige walls.

We are stormlight, and story, and song.

We are magic, whether we see it or not.

The fantasy isn’t the escape.

It’s the mirror.