LEOPOLDO'S SECRET LIBRARY Some people are strange — they like to spend their evenings reading books. Others are even stranger — they believe in the magic found between pages, in fantastical adventures, in stories of impossible love, in ghosts that walk among the living, and they think that everything that doesn't exist — maybe does after all. In short, this story is for those who are a little strange, like you and me — you know, for those who. So… listen. If you take the road up the hill from the center of town, you'll find an old and noble villa, one that has been there for a very long time. It must be about 350 years now that it has stood there in silence, watching and breathing softly beneath the Tuscan sky. Enormous rooms filled with history, endless corridors, and windows as large as dreams — but now, instead of porcelain plates and figurines, it gives us stories on paper for those who wish to read them. Yes, now it's the town library — a bit out of the way, but so beautiful. Well, you can't have everything. Now, on a summer night, wrapped in a blanket of stars and the soft glow of delicate lanterns, the villa had filled with voices, music, smiles, and so many stories told and heard, spoken aloud or whispered, intertwining in the embrace of the celebration. A special evening already, no doubt, but pay attention, because something even more unusual was about to happen. Yes, because Elisa was there too. Eyes as wide as the sky, hair as dark as the night, and a book in her hand — as always. Despite everything happening around her, Elisa preferred to read. She was there, in the main corridor: between the garden and the inner courtyard, halfway between the certain and the perhaps, sitting in an armchair a little too big for her, lost in a mysterious and captivating story — in a world all her own. She turns a page, then another, adjusts her yellow glasses, and turns another page… When slowly, the echo of piano music reached her ears. She didn't pay much attention. Thinking it came from the courtyard, she turned another page — and then another. But before long she realized that the notes she heard were not coming from the villa's courtyard but from one of its corridors — carried by a gentle breeze, from faraway places outside of time. Without thinking too much, Elisa rose silently, tucked her book under her arm, and followed the music. She crossed ancient corridors and rooms with shelves full of volumes of every size and color imaginable — rainbows of thoughts and words lined up one by one that seemed to never end. As the music grew stronger, the light faded, the rooms she passed through began to appear forgotten, the stone stairs she climbed and descended worn by time, the side corridors were now dark passages lit only by torches on the walls, appearing and disappearing in the darkness like breaths. A staircase, a wooden door left ajar, another passage, another staircase, and still more rooms and shelves and books without end. Then, suddenly, a mist covered the floor like a gentle tide, and there, before her, a heavy curtain — half open. A little light showed through, and a few small wooden steps. She climbed them, those little stairs, and the music wrapped around her like an embrace. On the stage, candles floated in the air like fireflies on a timeless night. And there, at the center, seated before a tiny piano, was a mouse. But not just any mouse. Leopoldo wore a dark green tweed jacket, brown trousers pressed with care, and on his little snout, golden spectacles that gleamed with ancient and gentle wisdom. His fingers danced on the keys as if they were telling a secret. "Welcome, Elisa," he said, without stopping his playing. "I've been waiting for you." Elisa blinked, enchanted. "How do you know my name?" "Ah," Leopoldo smiled, letting the last note fade softly into the air, "those who love stories always recognize those who seek them." He stood, adjusted his jacket with an elegant gesture, and looked at her with eyes full of stars. "Do you know where you are?" "In the town library," Elisa answered, but her voice trembled a little, as if she knew the answer was something else. "That one everyone knows," said Leopoldo, stepping down slowly from the stage. "Every town has one that everyone knows. But every town also has another — one that almost no one finds." He paused, his eyes gleaming. "You have found the second." Leopoldo led her toward a large wooden door that Elisa could have sworn wasn't there a moment before. It opened slowly, without a sound, like a sigh held too long. And what she saw took her breath away. Endless shelves climbed upward, descended downward, stretched in every direction like spirals of galaxies made of paper and dreams. Candles floated everywhere, illuminating books that seemed to breathe, to pulse softly, like sleeping hearts. "What is this place?" Elisa whispered. "This," said Leopoldo, walking among the shelves, "is the library of books never written." Elisa followed, confused. "Books never written? But how can they exist?" Leopoldo stopped, turned, and looked at her with infinite gentleness. "Every story ever dreamed exists, Elisa. Every adventure imagined before sleep. Every tale thought but never put to paper. They all live here, at the border between the world and the dream, waiting." They stopped before a shelf. Leopoldo pointed to a small book, bound in blue like a summer sky. "Touch it," he said softly. Elisa reached out, hesitant, and brushed the cover. A gentle warmth passed through her fingers. And for an instant — just an instant — she heard a child's laughter, saw a dragon made of clouds, and a castle built of pillows and blankets. "This," said Leopoldo, "was the dream of a six-year-old boy. A story he told his teddy bear every night. He never wrote it down. But it exists. You see? It exists." Elisa smiled, her heart light. They walked on, through corridors of silent stories, until Leopoldo stopped before another book. This one was different. Larger, bound in dark leather, with golden letters that seemed to tremble. "And this one?" asked Elisa, quietly. "This one," said Leopoldo, and his voice grew soft as a caress, "belonged to a grandmother." Elisa touched it. And she felt something different. Not laughter, this time. But a warm, distant voice, telling of a brave little girl who crossed an enchanted forest to bring light to a forgotten village. "It was the story she wanted to leave her grandchildren," Leopoldo explained. "But time… time sometimes runs faster than dreams. She didn't have time to write it." Elisa felt her eyes sting. "But it's here," she whispered. "It's here," Leopoldo confirmed. "Forever." They continued walking, in silence, until they reached a shelf unlike the others. It was nearly empty. Only a few books, spaced apart, and so many open spaces, waiting. At the center, a book without a title. The cover was white, clean, like freshly fallen snow, like a page waiting for its first mark. "May I?" asked Elisa. Leopoldo nodded. She touched it. Nothing. No warmth. No voice. Only silence. But a full silence, like a breath held. "This book is empty," said Elisa, surprised. "Not yet written," Leopoldo corrected. "Not even dreamed. Not yet. It waits for someone to find the courage to imagine it." He turned toward her, and his eyes shone like the candles floating around them. "Perhaps it waits for you. Perhaps it waits for someone else. But it waits." Elisa stood still, looking at that white book. And she understood. She understood that every story she had ever imagined, every adventure invented before sleep, every dream she thought lost upon waking, existed somewhere. And she understood something else. That you don't have to be afraid to write. Because stories already exist — in the heart, in the mind, in dreams. Putting them on paper is not creating them from nothing. It is only opening a door and letting them out. "I have to go, don't I?" said Elisa, softly. Leopoldo smiled. "Your world awaits you. But now you know this place exists. And you know that every story you dream will always have a place here, whether you write it or not." He paused. "But if you do write it," he added with a sly smile, "it can live out there too. And that, my dear, is another kind of magic." Elisa found herself back in the villa's corridor, sitting in the armchair a little too big for her, the book still under her arm. The celebration went on, voices and music and laughter, as if no time had passed at all. But something had changed. She had changed. She opened the book she had been reading, looked at the pages, and smiled. Then she closed it. Because now she knew that the most beautiful stories are not only the ones we read. They are the ones we carry inside, the ones we dream with our eyes open, and the ones that one day, with a little courage, we dare to tell. — This story was written by Marco Ciappelli for "Storie Sotto Le Stelle" Each story is currently written and narrated in both Italian and English.The translation from Italian (the original language) to English and the reading of the stories are performed using Generative Artificial Intelligence — which perhaps has a touch of magic... We hope it has done a good job!If you like it, make sure to tell your friends, family, and teachers, and subscribe to this podcast to stay updated. You’ll be able to read or listen to new stories as soon as they become available. Visit us On The Official Website https://www.storiesottolestelle.com/ Hosted by Simplecast, an AdsWizz company. 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