The bookstore café was quieter than usual. Late-afternoon light spilled through the wide arched windows, casting a honeyed glow across the wooden tables. Dust motes floated around impatiently, like old stories eager to be remembered. You could hear the soft turning of a page somewhere in the back corner, where someone had forgotten the world, lost in the depths of a book.
That’s where she always sat. Anouk. The owner of this humble, intellectual haven, and as wise as the goddess Athena—or so her customers said. She sat at her favourite table in the corner of the store. A tattered notebook opened in front of her, pen in hand, her brow furrowed. She was lost in thoughts. A chipped tea mug nestled close, full of her favourite jasmine tea. Its fragrance permeated the café, playfully swirling through the books and tables. Anouk’s face carried an absent-minded expression, her eyes focused on something only she could see. People didn’t always notice her, but those who did often found themselves sitting down near her, as if drawn by some unseen force.
On this sunlit afternoon, a young writer came in, hands visibly trembling. Her shoulders hunched, her gaze lowered. She looked like someone bearing the burden of the world.
She hesitated, then asked, “Can I sit?”
Anouk raised her head and smiled gently. “Of course you can, dearest.” She looked at the girl’s face kindly yet with a knowing, soul-piercing gaze. “You’ve brought stories with you, haven’t you?”
The girl nodded shyly. Anouk noticed she kept her head lowered and avoided eye contact. After a relatively long silence, she finally mustered the courage to speak her mind.
“I don’t think I belong in this world of words,” the young writer admitted. “Everyone else seems so sure of their craft. Their sentences seem to glow with confidence, with easy eloquence. Whereas mine… just flicker.”
Anouk looked at the young girl with gentle eyes, brushing a curl of steam from her cup.
“Dear girl, you don’t have to blaze,” she said. “A flicker is still a light. No need to be so hard on yourself.”
“But isn’t a flicker too weak? What if it goes out?”
“This can happen to any writer, dearest. If that happens, you come sit here again. That’s what this space is meant for. To quietly return to your inner flame. To get reacquainted with your inspiration,your muse.”
The young writer smiled faintly, somehow looking reassured. Her face looked calmer, her body now leaning in, curiosity returning to her posture.
“Do you have… any rules? Something to hold onto in moments of doubt?”
Anouk tilted her head, considering.
“I don’t really like rules. What I can offer you is a set of small reminders. The kind that come to you when you forget to try so hard.”
She leaned in, speaking in a hushed voice, as if she were sharing something sacred. The girl leaned in even further, eyes wide, with a serious expression on her face. She took out her notebook and started taking notes furiously as Anouk began talking.
Anouk’s Rules for Quiet Magic
Tend to your soul before the sentence.
You are not a word-spitting machine. You are not a content-producing factory. Allow yourself to feel what wants to come through in your heart first before you write it on paper. Rest if you must. Listen with intent before you speak.
Protect your inner world.
The fragile yet powerful knowledge you carry is worth nurturing and defending. Turn down the noise of the world. Limit the scrolling paranoia. Let your eyes rest from the all-too-bright screens. Let silence speak its secrets to you. Silence is the world where the deepest knowledge resides.
Beauty is not the goal. Truth is.
More often than we care to admit, it’s the trembling voice that reaches our deepest emotions. That makes our hearts stir joyfully with remembrance. If you feel raw, hurt, torn—write from there. Let it speak. Give it a voice. That’s where the soft fire lives.
Gentleness is not weakness.
To keep your tenderness intact in a world like this one is an act of daily courage. I would go so far as to call it a rebellion. To write with meticulous care yet with attention to let love and truth shine, is to resist brutality. To make a stand against the mundane. The partial. The indifferent.The complacent.
Rituals matter.
Light a candle. Turn a fresh page. Have a designated chair, a place where you do your writing. Why, you ask? Because, my dear girl, magic likes to know it is invited into your heart, into your space. That’s how it will enchant the words and create captivating and meaningful stories.
Even invisible things have gravity.
Don’t underestimate the power of a quiet sentence, a whispered truth, or a sleepless poem scribbled at 2 a.m. These are the very seeds that will sprout stories.
Let writing be a return, not a performance.
You’re not here to impress or perform. You’re here to remember. To take notice. To offer the unspeakable a voice. Do so respectfully and with discernment.
The young writer sat still for a moment, letting the words settle. Eventually,she put down her pen. She whispered:
“It’s strange… I finally realised it’s the quiet things that move me most.”
“Exactly,” Anouk said, nodding her head approvingly.
“You don’t have to scream to be heard by the ones who need your voice.”
The café around them seemed to breathe. Another page turned. A playful breeze fluttered the curtains. Somewhere in the distance, the bell above the door chimed gently, as if the room itself had exhaled.
Anouk returned to her notebook. As if on cue, the young writer took theirs out, too.
Two pages opened—one seasoned, the other trembling, but both glowed with the same quiet, glittery magic.
From the little café between the lines,
Anouk