Teodora Todorova is participating in the International Literary Creation Competition, 7th Edition, from Burgas, Bulgaria and is 12 years old. We thank her for her participation and wish her success.

The Feather of Dreams

It was an early spring morning. The sun was rising over the horizon, and soon everything was bathing in its majestic glow. Its rays streamed into my room, bringing warmth and comfort. Not long after, my eyes slowly opened. I was enchanted by the wonderful melody coming from the small beaks of the songbirds that had settled on the branches of the pear tree in our yard.

After a minute or two, I got up, put on a yellow dress, and quickly ran to the porch. As soon as I opened the door and stepped over the threshold, I felt the sense of freedom, of freshness and admiration. Everything seemed unreal. Oh, nature, you surprise and startle me every time!

I stood there, bewildered, staring at the view before me. Wherever I turned, I saw paradise just a step away.

It was a day off, and I wanted to enjoy it to the fullest, so I decided to walk to my favourite place – the “Ink Heart” bookshop. When I arrived and opened the large, heavy door, the familiar sound of the small bell greeted me with a soft, coppery ring. Inside, the quiet calm I knew so well reigned once again. The ceiling was decorated with carved rosettes of light wood, and a large one, shaped like the sun, ornated the central part. Several coloured lanterns, adorned with intricate ornaments and stained glass, hung around them, flickering with a faint light. Open books peeked from above, with colourful decorative butterflies perched on their pages.

All the shelves were made of wood, with endless rows of books on all kinds of topics. There were globes of various sizes between them and large, detailed wooden models of ancient ships with masts and sails. Every corner of the bookshop housed a variety of evergreen plants in pots – ferns, scheffleras, dracaenas, ficuses, and ivy, which wrapped the window frames. A decorative fountain with softly bubbling water enchanted all visitors.

The bookshop also offered scented, colourful candles, as well as handmade cards with cute wishes and messages. It even sold herbarium flowers as bookmarks, infused with a delicate vanilla scent. The walls were decorated with reliefs of famous literary characters. On one of them there was a painting that always made me stop, ever losing track of time while admiring it. It depicted a majestic waterfall cascading down a mountain, surrounded by blooming rose bushes, under a sky shimmering in yellow, orange, and blue, with the sun slowly setting over the rocks.

The bookshop owner, Mr. Gilbert, was an old, large man, always wearing knitted sweaters, most often with diamond or striped patterns. He was bald, with only little white hair, sticking out funnily on the sides and giving him a gentle look. His eyes were dark. He sometimes peered over his tiny glasses, which hung on a cord. Mr. Gilbert often wore a dark, oil-coloured apron when working on his detailed ship models.

He never bothered his customers, allowing them to browse freely and enjoy the cozy atmosphere. He usually sat in a red armchair in the corner, assembling delicate ship parts or reading. Today, he was holding The Wizard of Oz, and when I entered, he simply nodded slightly, smiled warmly, and returned to his book.

I went to one of the shelves and began browsing: Emil of Lönneberga, Tom Sawyer, The Bookland, Karlsson-on-the-Roof. I reached for one of them, and when I pulled it from the shelf, I noticed a wooden box behind it. It looked very old and was covered in dust.

As soon as I opened it, I saw a glass feather. Illuminated by the light of the lantern above, it shimmered in iridescent shades of dark violet and blue, with tiny silver sparkles. My breath caught for a moment as I stared at it.

“This is the Feather of Dreams,” said Mr. Gilbert. “You can use it to draw and change people’s dreams; their nightmares can become beautiful visions. No one has ever looked inside that dusty box or opened it before. Would you like me to tell you the legend behind it?”

“Yes!” I replied enthusiastically.

“In a small wooden house with a roof of stone slabs covered in thick green moss lived a kind-hearted old man with a long silver beard and clear blue eyes. Every night before going to sleep, he dipped a glass feather into an inkwell filled with moonlight and stardust and used it to paint the fairy-tale images of dreams.

This feather was no ordinary one. It had fallen from the wing of the mythical bird Ephyra. Once every thousand years, she flew majestically over the forest and shed a single feather. As soon as the tip of the feather touched a pure white canvas, magical landscapes appeared – the scent of blooming roses, the song of the wind, the sound of a majestic waterfall, and the sparkle of hundreds of fireflies. These were the dreams that turned people’s nightmares into beautiful and wondrous visions.

One night, however, the old man fell asleep early and missed drawing a new dream. The feather stood on the table when a strong wind blew through the open window and carried it away over the dark forest. When it returned, it had lost its magic. The old man could no longer paint the fairy-tale landscapes, so he placed it in a wooden box, and from that moment on, people stopped having beautiful dreams.”

“That old man was my grandfather,” Mr. Gilbert continued. “He gave me this feather and told me that one day a special person would restore its power and be able to use it again. For years it remained unused. It became an ordinary glass feather but when you touched it, its magical colours returned. I believe that you are the one who can recover its magic and bring back dreams.”

I picked it up, my hands trembling. The moment its tip touched the white canvas, the ink began to flow. Hundreds of fireflies appeared, the scent of roses filled the air, and a gentle spring breeze brushed my hair.

Suddenly, the bookshop seemed to expand, and a dream I had never believed possible unfolded before me. Somehow, I found myself in a boat made of stars, floating not on a river, but on fluffy pink clouds sprinkled with glitter. The moon was huge and very close. I reached out and touched it. It felt soft, like silk.

I turned to see if Mr. Gilbert was there, but there was no one. Only me and the beauty around me. When I looked forward again, the bird Ephyra had landed at the bow of the boat. She gazed at my left hand, where I held the feather. Her wings were enormous, shimmering in electric purple, deep blue, and cyclamen pink at the edges. Her tail spread out like a radiant halo. Ephyra`s eyes shone in emerald green in the darkness, and her beak gleamed in pure silver.

When she sang, everything fell silent under the gentle melody. My eyelids slowly closed. I surrendered to the dream and let it carry me away.

A moment later, I opened my eyes in shock. I was back in the bookshop. Everything was in its place. I was sitting on the floor, trying to understand what had just happened. The feather was still in my hand, and Mr. Gilbert was looking at me with a smile.

“You have restored its power! No one has ever succeeded before. Thank you! Now people will dream only beautiful dreams. We cannot lock it away in that dusty box again. Help me choose a special place for it here, so anyone who wishes, can come and draw their own dream!” he said.

We placed the feather on a small wooden table beside Mr. Gilbert’s red armchair. That way, he could tell its story, and it would continue to work its magic.

It was time to go. When I got home, I went to my room and took out my diary. I wrote down everything about the incredible day I had had. That night, I fell asleep and had the most wonderful dreams.

P.S. The magic was not in the feather, but in the heart that held it.