The Book That Learned How Far a Story Can Travel

An incredible story written by Aditya, age 12.

“I was not always aware of the world beyond the shelf I lived on. For most of my life, my universe was a narrow wooden space, hemmed in by taller books on either side, my spine pressed against theirs like a quiet reassurance that I belonged. Dust settled gently on my top edge, collecting in a way that suggested stillness rather than neglect. My pages were slightly curved from years of being opened, my cover softened by hands that had held me often enough to leave their warmth behind.

I knew the sounds of a bedroom at night. The creak of floorboards just outside the door. The soft rustle of curtains shifting in the evening air. I knew the faint hum of distant traffic and the deeper silence that followed once the lights were switched off. Most of all, I knew the feeling of being opened just before sleep. There was always a pause while the reader adjusted the lamp or settled against the pillows. Then came the turn of the first page, slow at first, then faster as the story began to take hold.

Reading was never rushed in that room. It was a pleasure; a habit built from comfort and curiosity. Some nights, only a few pages were read before sleep arrived. Other nights, chapters disappeared quickly, as if the reader could not bear to leave the story unfinished. I was there for all of it, offering escape, familiarity, and the quiet joy of stepping into another world. I believed this was all a book was meant to be.

Time passed in small, familiar ways. Some days I was taken down from the shelf and read from the beginning again. Other days, I was opened halfway through and continued where the bookmark waited patiently. Occasionally, I was not touched at all, but I could still hear life continuing around me. Laughter from another room. A television murmuring in the background. Music playing softly somewhere nearby. Even when I was not being read, I felt useful simply by existing, ready whenever I was needed.

My pages were no longer pristine. Corners were bent where fingers had turned too quickly. A sentence had once been underlined in pencil and later rubbed out, leaving a pale shadow behind. One page near the back carried a crease that would never quite disappear. I had been dropped, packed into a bag, and used as a pillow more than once. A cup of tea had once been placed too close, leaving a faint mark near the edge of my cover. I had been carried, shared, and returned. I had been loved. Because of that, I assumed my journey was over.

Books are not supposed to move once they have found a home. They are meant to wait patiently on shelves, to be reached for when comfort or distraction is needed, and to remain part of a familiar space. I believed I had fulfilled my purpose. My story had been told. My words had done their work. I was content to remain where I was.

Then one morning, unfamiliar hands reached for me.

They were gentle, but they did not pause in the way I was used to. I was lifted from the shelf, but I was not opened. I was not read. Instead, I was placed inside a cardboard box. Inside were dozens of other books, some new and stiff, others old and softened like me. Some covers were bright and glossy. Others were faded by time and sunlight. We were pressed together, our covers brushing, our pages whispering softly as we settled.

The box smelled of paper and glue, and when the lid was closed, everything went dark.

At first, I was frightened. Books are made to be opened, not shut away. Darkness felt wrong, like being forgotten. I could no longer sense the room I had known for so long. I could not hear the familiar sounds of the house. All I could feel was the tight space of the box and the presence of other books around me.

Soon, though, the box began to move.

We were carried, loaded, and stacked. Each shift sent a ripple through us, causing us to lean against one another for support. Voices drifted through the cardboard, unfamiliar but purposeful. They spoke of donations, of packing lists, and of places far beyond anything I had ever known. Again and again, I heard the name Just Be A Child, often shortened to JBAC.

From the fragments I overheard, I began to understand. JBAC was a charity that believed childhood should not be limited by geography, poverty, or circumstance. They believed that books were not luxuries, but necessities. That stories could educate, comfort, and empower. That reading could open doors where none seemed to exist. They spoke about schools with empty shelves, about children eager to learn but lacking resources, and about how a single book could change the way a child saw the world.

As I listened, something shifted inside me. The fear I had felt at being boxed away slowly transformed into anticipation. I began to realise that my time on the shelf had not been an ending at all. It had been preparation.

The journey began on the road. The van rumbled beneath us, shaking with every bump and turn. Inside the box, we leaned against one another, sharing weight and warmth. I imagined the world passing by outside. Streets giving way to open roads. Towns fading into countryside. I had never travelled further than the inside of a school bag before. Now I was part of something far larger than myself.

Eventually, the van stopped, and we were unloaded into a large warehouse. The air was cold, and every sound echoed. JBAC volunteers moved steadily through the space, opening boxes and checking their contents. When a box was opened, light spilled in briefly, illuminating spines and covers.

When it was my turn, a volunteer lifted me carefully and flicked through my pages. They paused at the marks of use, the softened corners, the faint pencil shadow. Instead of frowning, they smiled. I understood then that my wear was not a problem. It was proof. Proof that I had been read, that I had mattered before, and that I was ready to matter again.

We waited in the warehouse for days, perhaps weeks. Time is strange for books. We measure life in pages, not hours. Yet even in waiting, there was purpose. Every box was labelled. Every destination planned. JBAC treated us with care, not as objects, but as tools for learning and imagination.

When we were moved again, the motion felt different. Deeper. Slower. Constant. We had been loaded onto a ship.

The vibration beneath us never stopped, and the gentle rolling motion made it clear that we were crossing water. Somewhere beneath us stretched an ocean wider than anything I could imagine. I thought about how far I was now from the shelf that had once been my whole world. I wondered whether the person who used to read me before bed noticed I was gone. Perhaps they missed me. Perhaps they hoped I was being enjoyed by someone else.

They were right.

JBAC had planned this journey carefully, ensuring books could travel safely across the world to places where access to reading materials was limited. To them, stories were bridges. They connected children to knowledge, to confidence, to possibility. They believed that the pleasure of reading was not something reserved for a few, but something every child deserved to experience.

During the long journey, I had time to think. I remembered how reading had felt in that quiet bedroom. The comfort of familiarity. The excitement of turning a page. The way a story could make time disappear. I wondered what reading would mean to the child who would open me next. Would it be an escape from daily worries? A challenge? A new skill? A joy they had never known before?

Weeks later, the box was opened again.

Warm air rushed in, carrying the scent of earth and dust. Sunlight flooded the space, bright and golden. The voices around us sounded different now, softer and full of excitement. I heard someone say we had arrived in Kenya.

It was one of the places JBAC supports, working with schools and communities to provide books for children who may never have owned one before. The weight of that knowledge settled over me. I understood then how far I had travelled, not just in distance, but in purpose.

The road to the school was rough and narrow. Birds called nearby. Children laughed in the distance. When we were carried into the classroom, the noise grew louder. The room was simple but alive. Wooden desks bore marks of years of use. Colourful drawings decorated the walls. Shelves stood ready, many of them nearly empty.

A teacher opened the box and began handing the books out. Each child received theirs with care. Some held them close. Others opened them immediately, eyes wide with curiosity.

When a child reached for me, their hands paused.

I realised then that this was not a book being borrowed or shared. This was a book being owned. Something personal. Something precious. Something made possible by JBAC’s belief that reading could change lives.

The child opened my cover slowly. Their finger traced the title as if committing it to memory. Each page was turned with care, as though the story might vanish if handled too quickly. Their eyes moved carefully across the words, sounding them out, returning to lines again and again.

The words I carried, words that once helped someone relax at the end of a long day, were now helping someone learn, imagine, and grow. Reading was no longer just a pleasure. It was discovery. It was possibility. It was a doorway opening.

I felt different then.

I was the same book, with the same story printed inside me, the same worn edges and softened spine. Yet my purpose had deepened. I was no longer something extra. I was something essential.

As the sun lowered outside the classroom window, the child closed my cover gently and held me close. I could feel their heartbeat through the pages, steady and warm. In that moment, I understood that I had travelled across oceans not just to be read, but to matter.

I was no longer only a book that had been loved once.

I was a book that could be loved again, and again after that. Because of JBAC, my story would continue. And that made every mile of the journey worthwhile.”