Belle and Ella

The world of stories was my escape, but I never imagined it would become my reality. It all started with a book—a dusty, leather-bound tome I found in my grandmother's attic. The moment my fingers brushed against its cover, a shimmering light enveloped me, and the familiar scent of old paper was replaced by the sweet, damp smell of a forest. I stumbled out of a tangle of thorny roses, finding myself in a world where magic hummed in the air and the trees whispered secrets. As I pushed through the undergrowth, I heard the sound of laughter and saw them: two women sitting on a mossy log, their gowns radiant in the dappled sunlight. One, with her hair pulled back in a simple bun, was mending a tear in her blue dress, a tiny bird perched on her shoulder. The other, her brown hair cascading over a yellow gown, was gesturing animatedly as she described the plot of a new book she'd just finished reading. It was Cinderella and Belle, and they were, impossibly, friends.