Chiku scampered to a corner and pulled out a small, dusty book bound in leather. “This,” he said, “holds the stories of Dehradun—the ones too old for even your grandfather to know. Stories of tigers that spoke, of clouds that danced, of children who flew with kites. But the book is fading. It needs a new story, one only you can tell.”

In the sleepy town of Dehradun, nestled between the green folds of the Doon Valley, lived a boy named Arjun. He was ten years old, with bright eyes that sparkled like the streams tumbling down the Mussoorie hills. Arjun’s house, a small cottage with a tin roof, stood at the edge of a mango orchard, where the air was always thick with the scent of ripe fruit and damp earth.

Every afternoon, after school, Arjun would slip off his shoes, grab his worn-out cricket ball, and wander into the orchard. But his favorite spot wasn’t among the mango trees. It was a giant old oak that stood alone at the far end, its gnarled branches reaching out like the arms of a wise old giant. The tree was so old that even Arjun’s grandfather, who told the best stories, didn’t know when it was planted. “That oak,” Grandpa would say, puffing on his pipe, “has seen more secrets than all of Dehradun put together.”

One cloudy afternoon, with the monsoon threatening to spill, Arjun sat under the oak, tossing his cricket ball from hand to hand. The wind whispered through the leaves, and the air felt heavy, like it was holding its breath. As he leaned against the rough bark, he noticed something strange—a small, carved wooden door at the base of the tree, no bigger than a book. It was half-hidden by moss, and Arjun was sure it hadn’t been there yesterday.

Curiosity, as Grandpa always said, was Arjun’s greatest friend and worst enemy. He brushed away the moss and tugged at the door. It creaked open, revealing a hollow inside the tree, just big enough for a boy to crawl into. Without a second thought, Arjun squeezed through.

Inside, the air was cool and smelled of old wood and secrets. A faint glow came from deeper within, and Arjun, heart thumping, followed it. The hollow widened into a small chamber, and there, sitting on a cushion of roots, was a tiny creature. It looked like a squirrel but stood upright like a person, with whiskers that twitched and eyes like polished black pebbles.

“Who are you?” Arjun whispered, his voice echoing softly.

“I’m Chiku, the Keeper of the Oak,” the creature said in a voice like rustling leaves. “And you, boy, are the first to find my door in a hundred years.”

Arjun’s mouth fell open. “A hundred years? But why me?”

Chiku tilted his head. “The oak chooses who it trusts. You listen to the wind, don’t you? You hear the stories in the creak of branches and the song of the river. That’s why you’re here.”

Arjun didn’t know what to say, but he felt a warmth in his chest, like the oak itself was nodding in agreement. “What do you keep in here?” he asked.

Chiku scampered to a corner and pulled out a small, dusty book bound in leather. “This,” he said, “holds the stories of Dehradun—the ones too old for even your grandfather to know. Stories of tigers that spoke, of clouds that danced, of children who flew with kites. But the book is fading. It needs a new story, one only you can tell.”

“Me?” Arjun squeaked. “I’m not a writer!”

“You don’t need to be,” said Chiku. “Live a story, and the book will write itself.”

For the rest of the summer, Arjun visited the oak every day. He told Chiku about the time he chased a runaway kite across the valley, nearly tumbling into the Tons River. He spoke of the night he and his friends camped in the orchard, whispering ghost stories until the stars seemed to listen. And once, he even told Chiku about the time he helped a lost puppy find its way home through the misty streets of Dehradun.

Each story made the book glow a little brighter. Chiku would listen, his whiskers twitching, and scribble in the book with a tiny quill. “Good,” he’d say. “The oak likes that one.”

One day, as the monsoon rains finally arrived, drumming on the tin roofs, Chiku closed the book. “It’s enough for now,” he said. “The oak is happy. But keep living your stories, Arjun. Dehradun is full of them.”

Arjun crawled out of the tree, the little door closing behind him with a soft click. He never found it again, no matter how hard he looked. The oak stood as it always had, silent and strong, its leaves whispering in the rain.

Years later, when Arjun was grown and had children of his own, he’d take them to the old oak and tell them stories—not just his, but the ones Grandpa told, and the ones he swore the wind carried. And sometimes, when the light was just right, he thought he saw a tiny door flicker in the bark, as if Chiku was still there, writing down the secrets of Dehradun.