Oliver moved on his bed, trying to catch more of the little light coming from the barred window onto the page.

There really was nothing there. He flipped through the pages. Maybe he’d accidentally skipped a few. No, there really wasn’t anything there. A small, confused frown on his face, Oliver moved back to the first page, sighed, and moved to close the book.

Wait! His writing was there again. He must have just imagined it. Yeah, just imagined it. The small boy leaned over to reread what he’d written.

Hi Oliver. It’s sad that this is the only book you’ve seen. Books are wonderful things. And don’t worry about your writing. It looks perfectly fine to me.

He gasped, blinked, and read it again. He must be imagining this. This wasn’t real. This was impossible. Some fairy story. Not real. He closed the book and opened it to the first page again.

The page was white again. He must have dozed off and never written. Maybe he’d try again.

He rewrote it all, closed the book, and opened it again.