The Rediscovery

They brought it to me,
laid it on the hospital table
like a gift.
A book of fairy tales
Grimm, they called it.
Figures.
I glanced at the cover,
at the tangled letters
and faded illustrations,
and thought, What am I, six?
But I was too tired to argue,
so I let it sit there.

For hours, it stared at me,
an unwanted guest
in a room that smelled of
antiseptic and quiet defeat.
Finally, I picked it up,
more out of boredom
than curiosity,
and thumbed through the pages
with a smirk that felt like armour.

The words were simple,
too simple for someone
who had lived through this
through IV drips
and beeping machines,
through nights so long
they stretched into dreams.
But I kept reading,
like poking a bruise
just to see if it still hurt.

The twelve princesses danced
their shoes to shreds.
The soldier watched them,
invisible and clever,
while the king sat useless
on his throne.
I rolled my eyes.
Figures.

But then, somewhere between
the worn-out shoes
and the soldier’s quiet triumph,
something shifted.
The words deepened,
like shadows in twilight.
The princesses weren’t just dancing—
they were escaping.
The soldier wasn’t clever
he was desperate.
And the king?
Maybe he wasn’t useless.
Maybe he was just tired,
just like me.

Suddenly, it hit me
this wasn’t for children.
Not the way I’d thought.
This was for the broken,
the bruised,
the ones lying in sterile rooms,
waiting for answers
that may never come.

I read on.
Gretel burned the witch,
Hansel found the crumbs,
and I thought about hunger,
about all the times I’d chased
the wrong thing
a bad dream,
a bad person,
a bad hope
I couldn’t let go of.

Rumpelstiltskin spun gold,
but only because someone
was drowning in promises
they couldn’t keep.
And wasn’t that life?
We all spin something
just to keep breathing.

By the time I closed the book,
the machines hummed softly
in the corner.
I sat there, staring at the cover,
and for the first time in days,
I felt awake.
The words buzzed in my veins,
electric, alive,
like a story I’d forgotten
but always knew.

I thought fairy tales were
for children,
but maybe they’re
for the weary
for the ones old enough
to know magic isn’t real
but still hope
to see it anyway.

I laughed,
softly,
the kind of laugh
that feels like breathing.
And in that quiet room,
surrounded by tubes and wires,
I felt something I hadn’t
in years
something close to joy.
Figures.