It was a crisp evening in the Shire, and the stars twinkled brightly above Bag End. Inside, the warm glow of the fireplace cast dancing shadows on the walls. Bilbo Baggins sat in his favorite armchair, a well-worn book resting on his lap. Beside him, two eager young hobbits—his niece and nephew, Frodo and you—snuggled under a cozy blanket, their eyes wide with anticipation.

“Uncle Bilbo,” Frodo asked, his voice filled with curiosity, “tell us a story. A real one, about your adventures!”

Bilbo chuckled softly, his eyes twinkling. “Ah, you want to hear about the old days, do you? Very well, gather ’round.”

Bilbo began, his voice rich with nostalgia.

“It all started one fine morning when a wizard named Gandalf knocked on my door. He asked if I was interested in an adventure. Naturally, I declined. But the next day, thirteen dwarves arrived at Bag End, each with their own peculiarities. They were led by Thorin Oakenshield, heir to the throne of Erebor, the Lonely Mountain.”

You and Frodo exchanged excited glances.

“Why did they come, Uncle?” you asked.

“Ah,” Bilbo said, leaning forward, “they sought to reclaim their homeland and treasure from the dragon Smaug. And they wanted me to join them as a burglar.”

Frodo gasped. “You? A burglar?”

Bilbo winked. “I was reluctant, but Gandalf insisted. And so, our journey began.”

As Bilbo continued recounting tales of trolls, goblins, and dragons, your eyelids grew heavy. Frodo’s breathing slowed beside you. Bit by bit, your eager questions faded into soft sighs.

Seeing this, Bilbo smiled tenderly, closing his book. He gently tucked the two of you in under the blanket, brushing a strand of hair from your forehead.

“Sleep well, my little adventurers,” he whispered.