Zanabia Story Tellers

On Sunday evenings, when the mountains of ZANABIA begin to turn honey-gold and the wind slows down as if it too wants to listen, the Story Tellers arrive.

They are the grandpas and grandmas of Zanabia—soft-voiced, sharp-eyed, wrapped in shawls that smell faintly of herbs, wool, and old laughter. Some have horns that curve gently with age, some have beaks dulled by time, some have whiskers silvered by stories told a thousand times. All of them carry one priceless thing: memory.

The little Zanabians gather naturally, without calling. They sit on warm rocks, fallen logs, or directly on the grass, tails flicking, ears twitching, eyes wide. No screens. No clocks. Just the mountains, the park, and a circle that feels older than the city itself.

Stories here are never rushed.
A grandma pauses mid-sentence to let the wind finish her thought.
A grandpa exaggerates a monster’s size, then winks because everyone knows he’s lying—lovingly.
Sometimes the stories are about flying rhinos and polite UFOs.
Sometimes they are about mistakes, forgiveness, winters that were hard, and summers that taught patience.

Every story ends the same way—not with applause, but with silence. A good, heavy silence. The kind that settles into young hearts and stays there.

Parents watch from a distance, pretending not to listen, while secretly remembering when they were once sitting in that same circle.

In Zanabia, these Sunday evenings are protected. Nothing official is scheduled over them. Because while festivals build joy and markets build prosperity, stories build Zanabians.

And as the sun finally disappears behind the mountains, one thing is always certain:

Tomorrow, the children will play louder.
They will imagine bigger.
And they will carry Zanabia forward—one story at a time.