Mary loved her fairy tales. She would climb up the small, rickety ladder into the dusty attic. After traveling to the very back of the room, she would carefully, lovingly pull out the old books and blow the dust from the covers, which seemed to shimmer and sparkle in the sunlight filtering through the lone window. Carefully balancing them, she would settle down in an old armchair and open the first page of the first book, drinking up the magic that seemed to overflow from every word.

She read of knights, dragons and the damsel in distress. She saw in her mind the wild unicorn carefully avoiding the hunter's arrow, or of the lovely Snow White seemingly breathing her last breath as her red lips closed over the piece of poisoned apple, so deadly it seemed to drip blood instead of juice. Sometimes the stories frightened her; other times they made her laugh. But she always knew in the end they would always turn out right. And even though they were only words on a page, to Mary they lived and breathed, each character becoming a part of her.

Years passed and Mary started traveling to the attic less and less. There were more things to catch her eye now, like boys and cars, makeup and clothes. Then one day, she stopped coming altogether. Snow White finally withered away in her glass coffin, the dwarves eternally at her side. The dragon and the knight were forever locked in battle, for there was no one there to turn the page to decide who the victor was. The magic began to die, as it always does when there is no one there to reach out and take it into their hearts, and the books faded and stayed in the darkness, lost and forgotten.
Then one day, Mary returned. She was no longer the little girl, but a grown woman. But she was not alone. Toddling behind her was a little girl and in her arms, Mary carried a baby boy. Walking over to the darkened corners of the attic, she once again pulled out the old books and sat down in the old armchair, opening the pages again. The knight thrust his sword into the dragon's belly and rescued the fair maiden. The unicorn escaped the arrow and disappeared into the safety of the wood. New life flowed into them with the new magic of the children, along with the old magic that Mary released. And inside Mary's mind, the stories smiled. For even though magic can be lost, it can always be found again by one who carries it within their hearts. For within one's heart, nothing is forgotten.

The End