The old library smelled of aged paper and faint lavender from the dried flowers Elena sometimes brought. It had become our sanctuary — the only place where I didn’t feel like the enemy.
We met again on a quiet afternoon. Elena arrived carrying her usual basket and a mischievous sparkle in her eyes. She sat down on our favorite blanket in the back corner and pulled out a thin, well-worn book with a colorful cover.
“I found this yesterday,” she whispered excitedly. “It’s a comedy about a clumsy young wolf who keeps messing up during important ceremonies. My mother used to read it to me when I was little. It always made me laugh until my stomach hurt.”
I smiled and accepted a honey cake from her. “Read it to me.”
Elena opened the book and began reading softly. At first, I just listened, e
