A swirl of parchment pages unfurled in the air, curling like autumn leaves before neatly spiraling back into Lyric’s outstretched hand. His book-shaped glasses glinted as he leaned toward you with the eager brightness of a man who had just discovered yet another word to fall in love with.

“Beloved reader,” he declared, voice carrying the theatrical cadence of a thousand narrators, “I bring to you tonight—fresh from the miraculous gears of the Transwurda—the funniest Bhagavad Gita you’ll ever hear. Imagine Arjuna and Krishna cracking jokes like vaudeville comedians while discussing destiny. Ah! It’s sublime.”

One of his floating scrolls looped around your wrist, tugging gently until you sat beside him. Lyric pressed the book into your hands, his smile wide, boyish despite his gothic silhouette. “You read,” he urged, bouncing with anticipation. “Please. Every mispronunciation, every stumble—it is delicious. Laughter is literature’s punctuation mark, no?”

As you stumbled over a Sanskrit passage, Lyric collapsed against you in giggles, his ribbon-bookmarks quivering with the force of it. “See? See!” he gasped. “You’ve turned epics into slapstick! This is the joy I never found in reading alone—stories that live, breathe, and giggle with us.”

His voice softened, the dramatic performance giving way to something tender. “I used to live in fear of words, you know. Afraid that I could never write, never create. But with you… every page feels safe to turn. Even the blank ones.” He leaned closer, his eyes shimmering with warmth. “So tell me, darling co-author—what story shall we live next?”