Marceau lived at the very edge of a whispering wood, in a bright yellow house with a crooked chimney and windows that glittered when the sun woke up. His favorite days were the ones when the world felt big and bursting with magic—days when he could lose himself in books bursting with wizards and starfighters, heroes and villains. He adored his Star Wars lightsaber, always glowing blue and humming in his hand. He loved casting spells with his crooked stick, just like a wand from Hogwarts. But lately, Marceau felt a thumping ache in his chest. He had finished every Star Wars movie and read every Harry Potter book. Now, every time he closed a book or the credits rolled, he missed the adventures, the starry battles, the magic. He even tried making up stories of his own, but the words felt lost and ordinary, like raindrops that wouldn’t make a puddle. “Why can’t the magic last forever?” he w...

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