Every year, without fail, I scribble down in a notebook with The Little Prince on the cover all the books I’ve read. It’s become a ritual of sorts—one part record-keeping, one part quiet joy. Some people track their steps, I track my stories.
Whenever a book leaves a mark on me, the kind that stays with you like the smell of rain on warm pavement, I add a little heart next to the title. If I think it’s something my daughter might love one day, I write the letter J beside it—J for her name, for joy, for the future reader I’m secretly raising under my wing.
