the villagers gathered around to listen to his tales—of hard work, determination,and the power of learning, no matter how late in life.

Henry might never have riches or titles, but he had something far greater: the knowledge he had earned with his own two hands and the stories he could now pass on.

Slowly, haltingly, he read aloud:

“Once… upon… a time…”

Tears welled in his eyes as the words began to unlock a world he’d only dreamed of.

From then on, Henry became a storyteller in his own right. Though his voice was rough and his words simple,

so skilled at tilling soil, struggled to hold a pencil.Letters danced on the page like strangers refusing to introduce themselves. But Miss Clara was patient,and Henry was persistent.

Months turned into a year, and one day, Henry sat in his small, dimly lit home, the tattered book open before him.

“I can’t pay you,” Henry admitted, standing in the doorway. “But I’ll fix your roof or mend your fences if you’ll teach me to read.”

Miss Clara hesitated, then nodded.

Each evening after the children had gone home, Henry stayed behind to learn. It was hard work—his hands,

but they laughed and teased him for his ignorance.

One chilly morning, Henry found a tattered book abandoned on the road. Though he couldn’t make sense of its pages, he clutched it tightly. Determined, he walked to the schoolhouse, where the teacher, Miss Clara, was known for her stern demeanor.

Maeve’s tales transported Henry to places he’d never see and taught him things he’d never learned.
One day, Maeve fell ill and stopped coming to the square. Henry felt a hollow ache—without her, the world seemed smaller. He tried to ask the village children to read to him,

digging trenches and tending crops.
Though his hands were rough and his back bent from labor, Henry’s spirit was gentle. He loved stories, but since he couldn’t read, he relied on the village storyteller, Old Maeve, who visited the square every Sunday.

Me too follow back please

I love them too