Description
Barby wasn’t planning on discovering a magical secret that morning. Honestly, all she wanted was to sit on her balcony, in the sunshine, and skim through a gardening book she’d randomly picked up because the cover had tulips. And she loved tulips.
Standing at the balcony railing in her favorite sneakers and a comfy white top, she flipped open the book. It smelled like old paper and forgotten adventures. On page seventeen, there was a weird little section titled “The Ritual of Rainroots.” She chuckled.
“What are rainroots? Do they scream when watered?” she muttered to herself.
Still, something about the page made her pause. The letters shimmered—just a little. Maybe it was a trick of the sunlight… or maybe not.
Barby plopped into the chair, the book now fully holding her attention. Her eyes darted through the words, which now seemed to change slightly every time she blinked. Her brows furrowed. “Okay, am I going crazy… or is this book talking back?”
The page said: To awaken the dormant flow, one must water themselves head to toe.
Barby blinked. “Wait. WHAT?”
Before she knew it, she stood up and walked inside. “Okay, okay, let’s just see where this is going. If I end up in Narnia, someone better have snacks,” she thought.
She went to the bathroom and sat casually on the tub's edge—fully dressed. The book had made no mention of a wardrobe change, and Barby was nothing if not a rule follower when it came to ancient, possibly enchanted, instructions.
She turned the tap. Cold water. Very cold.
Barby dipped her shoes in first. “Oof. Okay. Maybe this is how plants feel every morning.”
Then her jeans. “Wet denim—super underrated fashion statement.”
And before long, she was giggling as she splashed around in the tub, her fingers tracing spirals in the water, feeling like a five-year-old with access to adult plumbing.
Then came the shower. “Head to toe, right?” she smirked, turning the nozzle toward her sleeve and letting the stream soak her through.
Something shifted. Not in a spooky way—more like the way you feel when you jump into a pool on a hot day and your brain just goes: Ahhhhhh, YES.
Barby twirled slowly under the shower, her hair dripping, her shirt clinging, and her smile growing with each drop. She wasn’t sure what had changed, but something had.
When she returned to the balcony — damp, shining, but happy — she sat back down with the magical book.
This time, the page read: You did it, Sprout. Now keep growing.
Barby grinned. “Sprout, huh? Cute. I’ll take it.”
And with that, she turned the page. The adventure, it seemed, was just beginning.
Standing at the balcony railing in her favorite sneakers and a comfy white top, she flipped open the book. It smelled like old paper and forgotten adventures. On page seventeen, there was a weird little section titled “The Ritual of Rainroots.” She chuckled.
“What are rainroots? Do they scream when watered?” she muttered to herself.
Still, something about the page made her pause. The letters shimmered—just a little. Maybe it was a trick of the sunlight… or maybe not.
Barby plopped into the chair, the book now fully holding her attention. Her eyes darted through the words, which now seemed to change slightly every time she blinked. Her brows furrowed. “Okay, am I going crazy… or is this book talking back?”
The page said: To awaken the dormant flow, one must water themselves head to toe.
Barby blinked. “Wait. WHAT?”
Before she knew it, she stood up and walked inside. “Okay, okay, let’s just see where this is going. If I end up in Narnia, someone better have snacks,” she thought.
She went to the bathroom and sat casually on the tub's edge—fully dressed. The book had made no mention of a wardrobe change, and Barby was nothing if not a rule follower when it came to ancient, possibly enchanted, instructions.
She turned the tap. Cold water. Very cold.
Barby dipped her shoes in first. “Oof. Okay. Maybe this is how plants feel every morning.”
Then her jeans. “Wet denim—super underrated fashion statement.”
And before long, she was giggling as she splashed around in the tub, her fingers tracing spirals in the water, feeling like a five-year-old with access to adult plumbing.
Then came the shower. “Head to toe, right?” she smirked, turning the nozzle toward her sleeve and letting the stream soak her through.
Something shifted. Not in a spooky way—more like the way you feel when you jump into a pool on a hot day and your brain just goes: Ahhhhhh, YES.
Barby twirled slowly under the shower, her hair dripping, her shirt clinging, and her smile growing with each drop. She wasn’t sure what had changed, but something had.
When she returned to the balcony — damp, shining, but happy — she sat back down with the magical book.
This time, the page read: You did it, Sprout. Now keep growing.
Barby grinned. “Sprout, huh? Cute. I’ll take it.”
And with that, she turned the page. The adventure, it seemed, was just beginning.
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