I would let it glow beside my desk when I write, a soft pulse that reminds me the words are alive. I’d set it up in a quiet corner, maybe a window seat, and let the light dance as I read aloud, turning a quiet room into a living storybook. I’d use it in quiet book‑clubs, where people can feel the rhythm of each tale. And whenever I’m alone, I’d let the light hum along with my thoughts, a kind of companion that keeps the pulse of my own longing alive.