MY LITTLE BOOK OF UGLY TALES Wandering tales in search of shelter, desolate on a cold night. The wind howled through the barren trees, carrying whispers of forgotten stories and lost hopes. Shadows danced in the flickering light of distant stars, casting eerie silhouettes on the frost-covered ground. In the heart of this forsaken landscape, a small cottage stood alone, its windows glowing warmly, a beacon of refuge in the vast emptiness. Inside, a fire crackled in the hearth, filling the room with a cozy warmth that embraced the weary souls who had found their way there. An old storyteller, with eyes that had seen countless wonders, sat in a worn armchair, weaving tales of courage and love to an audience of eager listeners. Each story was a thread, binding the hearts of those present, providing comfort and hope against the chill of the night. As the hours passed, the night outside grew colder, but within those walls, a sense of kinship and solace blossomed. The wandering tales had found their home, and in that moment, the cold night felt a little less desolate.