Let me ask you something.
Have you ever tried talking to your baby in the womb?
It’s weird at first, I know. You feel kinda silly—like you’re whispering to your belly button. But then something happens.
You feel a tiny kick… or a flutter. And suddenly, this invisible connection starts to feel real.
That’s where stories come in.
Reading short stories to your unborn baby isn’t just cute or wholesome. It’s powerful. It’s bonding. It’s the kind of quiet magic that doesn’t need science to feel true—even though, yes, there’s science behind it too.
So if you’re looking for free short stories to read to baby in womb, you’re in the right place.
I’m going to walk you through why it matters, how to make the most of it, and I’ll even share a few original short stories written just for this purpose.
Let’s keep it real, a little raw, and full of heart.
Why Read Stories to Your Baby in the Womb?
We could talk about language development or brain stimulation or early bonding—and those are all real things.
Babies in the womb can hear sounds, recognize your voice, and even remember rhythms. Reading helps them process language patterns early.
But let’s talk about the other side of it.
You.
Reading aloud slows you down. It softens your voice. It pulls you out of your head and into your heart. Even if just for five minutes a day.
You’re not doing it to teach your baby anything. You’re doing it because it feels good to love them this way.
You’re also creating a ritual—one that can last years.
What Makes a Good Story for a Baby in the Womb?
Let’s be honest. Your baby doesn’t need plot twists or big cliffhangers. Heck, they don’t even understand words yet. So why tell stories at all?
Because your baby feels your energy.
That’s why the best stories for babies in the womb are:
- Gentle and rhythmic
- Short (2–5 minutes)
- Soothing in tone
- Emotionally positive
- Full of familiar sounds (especially your voice)
They don’t need to be fancy. They don’t even need to be published. They just need to be loving.
How to Read to Your Baby (Yes, There’s a Sweet Spot)
There’s no rulebook here, but a few tips help:
- Start around 20–24 weeks. That’s when babies start responding to sound.
- Choose a quiet moment. Right before bed works well.
- Get comfy. You don’t have to “perform”—just relax and read like you’re humming a lullaby.
- Repetition is a gift. Reading the same stories again and again is actually great.
- Switch it up with a partner. If there’s someone else in your life, let them read too. Baby will recognize their voice later.
Free Short Stories to Read to Baby in Womb
Tiny ears are always listening. Even in the womb, your voice is their favorite sound—and a story makes it even sweeter.
The Little Cloud Who Wanted a Hug
Let me tell you a little story. A gentle one. Soft and slow. Just like the rhythm of your breath when you rest your hand on your belly and feel those tiny flutters inside…
There once was a little cloud. Not a big stormy one. Not one that rumbled or roared. Just a small, fluffy wisp that floated gently across the morning sky.
The little cloud didn’t have a name. Not yet. It had only just begun its journey. It was born from the breath of the sea and lifted by the laughter of the wind. And as it floated over the world, it whispered the same question to everyone it met:
“Where do I belong?”
The sun, bright and bold, shone down and said, “Oh, little one, you’re too small for me. I light up the sky. You barely make a shadow.”
That made the little cloud feel even smaller.
So it drifted on.
Over mountains that stood proud and tall. “Do I belong here?” the cloud asked the tallest peak.
The mountain rumbled kindly, “You may rest on my shoulder if you like. But I’m made of rock. I don’t know how to hug.”
So the cloud drifted again.
It passed over fields of golden wheat that swayed in the breeze. “Hello?” it asked gently. “Would you hold me?”
The wheat whispered back, “We’d love to, but our arms are too short. We wave, but we cannot wrap.”
The little cloud sighed. It wasn’t sad, really. Just… longing.
Because somewhere deep inside—deeper than its droplets and fluff—it had a feeling. A warm, quiet wish. It didn’t know the word for it. But we do.
It was a hug.
It wanted a hug.
Now… pause for a moment.
Place your hand on your belly.
Take a deep breath.
Let it out slow.
Imagine that cloud—soft, searching, sweet—floating toward your baby.
The cloud wandered further, over busy towns and tiny cottages. It listened to songs sung by birds. It tickled the rooftops with mist. It even danced with a paper kite for a little while.
But the kite flew too fast.
The cloud was quiet again.
Until it heard something.
A voice.
A small, soft voice.
It wasn’t a shout. Not even a whisper. It was quieter than quiet—like the hush of a lullaby half-remembered. It came from the earth below.
The little cloud drifted lower, curious.
And there, beneath a tree that hummed with honeybees, sat a woman with her hands on her belly. She wasn’t saying words out loud, not really. But she was talking.
Not with her mouth. With her heart.
She was reading. Telling a story. Her voice was warm like morning tea and soft like worn pajamas. And the story wasn’t just for her. It was for someone inside her.
The cloud shivered with joy.
This… this felt like something.
It hovered just above the tree. The air was still. Time slowed.
And then—oh then—the woman looked up.
She didn’t seem surprised to see a cloud so close. She smiled, that kind of knowing smile people wear when they’re watching something magical. Like a candle flickering. Or a baby kicking.
“Hello there,” she said to the cloud.
The cloud wobbled, caught off guard. Nobody had said hello like that before. Not even the sun.
“You’re just in time,” the woman said. “I was just getting to the best part of the story. Want to listen?”
The cloud swelled a little bigger.
Just a little.
It listened.
The woman spoke of gardens that grew wishes and stars that played hide-and-seek. Of lullabies that curled up like cats and drifted to sleep on windowsills.
And the cloud—oh, the cloud felt something strange. Something warm and weightless and new.
It was floating… but differently.
Not because of the wind.
Because of the story.
Let me pause again.
You see, stories are not just words.
They’re hugs made of breath.
They’re music made of memory.
When you read to your baby—even if they don’t understand the words yet—
They understand you.
Your voice.
Your rhythm.
Your love.
Back in the sky, the little cloud felt a tug deep within its fluff.
It wanted to give something back.
But clouds don’t have hands. Or voices. Or storybooks.
So the cloud did the only thing it knew how to do.
It wrapped itself around the tree like a scarf.
Soft.
Gentle.
Quiet.
The woman smiled again. “Thank you,” she said.
And then—just for a moment—she wrapped her arms around her belly, and her voice softened like rain on a roof.
“You’re safe,” she whispered. “You’re loved.”
And the baby inside heard it all.
Not with ears.
With heartbeats.
With waves of warm sound flowing through a tiny, growing body.
And somewhere, just above that moment, the cloud finally understood.
This…
This was a hug.
Not tight.
Not loud.
But perfect.
A hug made of stories and sky and waiting.
Now, if you ever find yourself sitting beneath a tree with a soft breeze brushing your cheek, and a little mist in the air—look up. That might be the little cloud, coming back to hear your story again.
And if you feel something warm bloom in your chest while you read to your baby, that’s the hug returned.
Because love—especially the kind that starts before birth—never really floats away.
Star in My Pocket
Let me tell you something small.
So small, you could miss it if you weren’t really listening.
Not small like a pebble. Or a crumb.
But small like a whisper. Or the space between two heartbeats.
It starts with a pocket.
Yes, a pocket.
You see, there once was a little star.
Bright.
Busy.
Beautiful.
But oh-so-lonely.
And this little star… well, she had a big problem.
She didn’t want to shine in the sky anymore.
Wait. Pause. Feel.
You might wonder why we’re talking about stars and pockets.
But that’s the thing about stories read to babies in the womb.
They don’t need logic.
They just need love.
So, snuggle in. Let your voice soften. Let your baby listen.
Because they do hear you. Not with ears yet, maybe.
But with memory. And rhythm.
And a bond no science fully explains.
Back to the star.
She had twinkled long enough, she thought.
She had glittered next to constellations.
She had danced near the moon.
She had peeked down at oceans and deserts and cities full of blinking lights trying to be stars too.
But still, something inside her ached.
It wasn’t a sad ache.
Just a longing.
She whispered to the universe:
“Where do I belong?”
The galaxies spun. The comets rushed past.
Nobody answered.
Until… something tugged.
Not a big pull. A tug.
Like a sleeve gently being held.
Or a tiny hand reaching for something familiar.
And the star followed it.
Down, down, down… past Saturn’s rings, past cloudy Earth skies, until she found herself not in the sky at all—
—but in a bedroom.
Dim. Quiet. Safe.
There was a woman. Curled up on her side. One hand tucked beneath her head.
The other—pressed to her belly.
Inside, her baby stirred.
Now you may say, “That’s silly. A star can’t fit in a bedroom.”
But in stories for womb-listening babies, anything is possible.
Because these stories aren’t for the mind.
They’re for the connection.
For the magic that wraps around a heartbeat and stays forever.
The star didn’t know what to do.
She wasn’t supposed to be there.
She blinked nervously.
Then—just as she was about to drift away—the woman whispered, “I had a dream about you.”
The star froze. Stars don’t usually get talked to.
“You were in my pocket,” the woman said softly. “A little glowing dot. And every time I got scared, I’d slip my hand in and feel you there, warm and bright. And I’d remember—everything is okay.”
The star blinked.
A pocket?
She didn’t know what a pocket was.
But she liked the sound of it.
The woman smiled in her sleep. “I think I’ll tell that to the baby.”
And just like that, the star felt it.
The place where she belonged.
Not in the sky.
Not with the moon.
Not even with the other stars.
But in a story.
A story told to someone too small to see but big enough to feel.
The star shimmered down, down, down…
…and nestled beside the woman’s belly.
No one saw her.
But the baby… the baby felt her.
A soft glow.
A gentle warmth.
Like a nightlight behind a curtain.
The star curled into a tiny speck of light—just small enough to fit in a pocket.
And she stayed there.
Not forever.
Just long enough.
Every night, the woman would whisper again.
“Little star, in my pocket.
You’re with me when the world is loud.
When my back hurts and my feet swell.
When I laugh for no reason.
When I cry at TV commercials.
When I press my hand here—yes, right here—and feel you flutter.”
And the baby would hear.
Not words.
Not exactly.
But the music of them.
The way you can feel a song through your chest.
The way you can feel love through skin and muscle and water and wonder.
And so, the star began to glow brighter.
Not like fireworks.
Not like flashlights.
Brighter like kindness.
Like calm.
Like lullabies on tired lips.
The baby kicked.
The woman smiled.
And the star thought, Maybe this is shining, too.
Time passed.
The woman grew.
Her steps slowed.
Her breath got deeper.
She still whispered the story every night:
“Little star, in my pocket.
You’re here.
And soon, so will the baby be.”
And the baby listened.
Some nights, the star felt unsure.
“Will the baby forget me when they come out?”
The woman never heard the question.
But somehow, she answered anyway.
“You’ll always be part of them.
Like freckles.
Or eyelashes.
Or the sound of my voice when I say their name.”
And one day, as morning cracked open the sky with golden light—
The baby arrived.
The star slipped quietly from the pocket and rose back into the sky.
Her place wasn’t needed anymore.
Because the baby carried her now.
Inside.
Like a memory.
Like a story.
Like a spark.
Now listen…
The baby doesn’t remember the star. Not really.
Not the way you remember birthdays or songs on the radio.
But on quiet nights, when they curl up on your chest, and you hum something soft they’ve never heard before—
They sigh.
Their tiny fingers twitch.
And their chest rises and falls just a little slower.
Because they remember the rhythm.
The glow.
The voice that carried them before they were born.
They remember the story.
They remember the star.
The one you put in your pocket.
Now pause. Breathe.
Let your hand rest gently on your belly.
Say it aloud. Or just in your mind.
Your baby is listening.
Not for the plot. Not for perfect grammar.
But for your voice. Your comfort. Your rhythm.
Say it with me:
“Little star, in my pocket.
You’re with me always.
And soon—so soon—I’ll hold you in my arms.
But for now, I hold you with my voice.”
The Snail Who Sang to the Moon
Shh…
Can you hear that?
It’s not wind.
Not thunder.
Not even your heartbeat.
It’s something slower.
Softer.
Sweeter.
It’s the sound of a snail… singing.
Yes. Singing.
Now I know what you’re thinking.
“Snails don’t sing.”
But this one did.
And her name… was Lula.
Lula was a garden snail.
She had a shell shaped like a question mark and a spirit full of lullabies.
But she didn’t sing for everyone.
No birds.
No frogs.
Not even the sunflowers who liked to hum when the wind blew just right.
She sang for one listener only.
The moon.
Every evening, after the world turned indigo and the sky stretched wide, Lula would climb the tallest leaf she could find and begin her song.
Slowly. Softly.
Her voice wasn’t loud.
It was like honey dripping into warm milk.
Or clouds brushing over the sea.
Gentle. Dreamy.
Perfect for the moon.
But here’s the secret…
Lula didn’t always sing to the moon.
There was a time—before the garden, before the shell curled tight around her back—when Lula never made a sound at all.
Back then, she hid.
She felt small.
Not just in size, but in spirit.
While the bees buzzed and the grasshoppers chirped and the crickets clicked their legs like tiny maracas, Lula stayed quiet. Still.
She didn’t think her voice mattered.
She didn’t think she mattered.
Until… the moon heard her.
Let’s go back, just for a moment.
It was a night like any other.
The garden was sleeping.
Dew clung to leaves like secret tears.
And Lula, curled beside a pebble, sighed.
Not because she was sad.
But because something inside her ached.
The kind of ache that isn’t pain—but potential.
The moon, high above, peeked through a hole in the clouds and saw her.
A little dot of a snail. Curled like punctuation at the edge of the world.
So the moon did something unexpected.
She whispered.
“Why don’t you sing, little one?”
Lula blinked.
Sing?
“I don’t have a song,” she whispered back.
The moon shimmered. “Everyone does. Yours is just quiet right now.”
Lula shook her head. “But I’m slow. And small. And not very sparkly.”
The moon laughed—not loudly, just a ripple across the stars.
“Neither am I, most nights. But I still shine.”
Lula felt something flutter in her chest.
Not fear.
Not doubt.
Something else.
Hope?
The moon leaned in closer. “Will you try?”
That night, Lula did something brave.
She opened her mouth—just a little—and let out the tiniest hum.
It wobbled.
It trembled.
It sounded like a dream falling asleep.
And the moon… smiled.
“That,” the moon said, “is a beginning.”
From that night on, Lula sang.
Just a little.
One note a night at first.
Then a line.
Then a lullaby.
She didn’t perform.
She didn’t shout.
She just shared.
And the moon came back every evening to listen.
Now, here’s where it gets even more magical.
Because something happened the night you were imagined.
Yes—you.
The night the idea of you drifted into this world like a shooting star, the moon was glowing brighter than usual.
And Lula?
She felt it.
The moon was listening—but also yearning.
So Lula climbed higher than she ever had.
She stretched every part of her, until she was nothing but soft shell and soft song—and she sang.
To you.
Even before you had ears.
Even before you had fingers and toes and hiccups and dreams.
She sang to your possibility.
Her song wasn’t about colors or numbers or names.
It was about belonging.
About being loved before you arrive.
About being sung to, even in silence.
And now, every time your mama reads this story, Lula hums again.
Softly.
Just for you.
Because Lula’s song didn’t end.
It lives in the rhythm of a voice you already know—the one wrapped around every beat of her heart.
Let’s take a moment now.
Place your hand gently over your belly.
Or if you’re the baby’s other parent, place your hand over hers.
Close your eyes.
Whisper softly:
“Lula the snail sings still.
In every hush.
In every stillness.
In every moment I tell you:
You are wanted.
You are enough.
And you are never alone.”
Now back to the garden.
Seasons passed.
It rains often. The flowers grew taller. The sun painted everything golden.
Lula grew a little older. Slower, even.
But her voice? It only grew stronger.
Because every time someone—like you—told her story, her song stretched just a little farther.
And you know what?
Some nights, when the moon is full and round and watching…
If you press your ear close to the window…
You might hear a tune.
Not loud.
But soft.
Sure.
A lullaby from the leaves.
That’s Lula. Still singing.
For the moon.
For you.
For every baby not yet born and every love already felt.
So what happens next?
You grow.
You arrive.
You hear stories from the outside.
And maybe one day, when you’re in someone else’s arms, they’ll sing to you too.
Not knowing why…
But feeling, somehow, it’s right.
And Lula will hum along.
Final whisper, from me to you:
Let this story be a soft thread between you and your baby.
Let Lula’s song echo through each quiet evening.
Because even before we’re born, we learn how to feel safe.
How to be loved.
How to listen.
So here’s your lullaby:
“Little one, do you hear that tune?
It’s the snail who sings to the silver moon.
She sings not loud, but deep and true—
A song from her shell, and now from you.”
The Pebble with a Big Dream
Let me tell you a little story.
It’s about a pebble.
Just a tiny one.
Not shiny. Not round. Not even smooth.
But it had something special.
It had a dream.
And not just a little dream.
A big one.
The pebble’s name was Pip.
Pip lived at the edge of a winding river.
The kind of place where dragonflies zip past like whispers and frogs sing when the moon rises.
Pip didn’t roll much.
Didn’t skip like the smooth stones kids toss across the water.
Didn’t sparkle in the sun like quartz or dance in the rain like pebbles that caught puddles.
But Pip didn’t mind.
Because Pip had a secret.
A dream tucked deep inside.
What was the dream?
To touch the stars.
Now you might be thinking:
Wait… how could a pebble touch the stars?
Pebbles don’t climb.
Pebbles don’t fly.
Pebbles don’t even bounce very high.
But dreams don’t follow rules.
And Pip’s dream glowed brighter than any logic.
Every night, Pip would lie still beside the river and look up.
The stars blinked. Twinkled. Smiled.
And Pip whispered, “Someday… I’ll meet you.”
The other pebbles giggled gently.
“Sweet Pip,” they said, “You belong to the ground, not the sky.”
But Pip just smiled.
Dreams are funny that way.
They don’t go away just because others don’t understand them.
Seasons passed.
The river rose and shrank.
The wind danced through the trees.
Birds came and went.
Pip stayed.
Watching. Waiting.
And dreaming.
Then, one night, something changed.
The moon was especially round that evening—like a big glowing bowl turned upside-down.
And down floated… something strange.
It drifted softly. Slowly. Spinning.
And landed—right next to Pip.
It was a feather.
Not just any feather.
This one shimmered.
It shimmered like moonlight bottled in silver.
Pip stared.
The feather tilted toward the little pebble.
“You made a wish,” it said, in a voice softer than wind through tall grass.
Pip blinked. “How did you know?”
“I heard it,” said the feather. “Wishes echo.”
“But I’m just a pebble,” Pip said. “I can’t fly. I can’t jump. I can’t even roll uphill.”
The feather thought for a moment. Then gently curled its tip around Pip’s edge.
“Then I’ll help you,” it said.
And with the lightest tug,
the feather lifted Pip off the ground.
It wasn’t high.
Just a tiny hop into the air.
But oh!
For Pip, it felt like soaring.
The trees looked smaller.
The river sparkled differently.
And for the first time ever, the stars felt closer.
Pip laughed—a tiny sound, like two pebbles clinking gently.
But the feather didn’t stop there.
Night after night, it returned.
And each time, it lifted Pip a little higher.
Some nights, they floated over the tall grass.
Other nights, they soared near the owl’s branch.
One night, they passed a cloud that yawned a sleepy hello.
Each time, Pip whispered:
“Closer…”
But something unexpected happened, too.
Pip began to notice others below.
A lonely pinecone who had never moved from its tree’s shadow.
A caterpillar afraid to leave its leaf.
A dandelion puff stuck in a fence.
And Pip, still being carried by the feather, would call down:
“Do you want to fly too?”
And the feather would dip.
And one by one, they joined the nightly dance.
The pinecone spun like a top.
The caterpillar giggled as it curled in loops.
The dandelion finally drifted free, glowing like a tiny lantern.
And Pip?
Pip’s heart grew bigger with every laugh.
The stars watched.
And one night, they whispered among themselves:
“Look at that brave little pebble,” one said.
“Not only reaching us,” said another, “but lifting others too.”
And then, something extraordinary happened.
A single star fell.
Not from sadness.
Not from tiredness.
But on purpose.
It floated down like a dream sliding through the sky.
And landed softly—right beside Pip.
The feather hummed.
Pip blinked.
“You came,” Pip whispered.
The star twinkled gently. “You came to us first.”
And then, with a swirl of light and wind and wonder…
The feather,
the star,
and the little pebble
flew.
They didn’t stop at the tree line.
Or the clouds.
Or even the quiet moon.
They rose beyond.
Through skies that changed colors like watercolor dreams.
Past sleepy comets.
Past stardust fields.
Until Pip felt something inside begin to glow.
Not just with light.
But with purpose.
Because here’s the real magic of the story:
Pip didn’t become a star.
Pip stayed a pebble.
But something had changed.
Now, when Pip returned to the riverbank, something sparkled deep within.
The dream had been touched.
Not just for Pip…
…but for everyone Pip brought along.
So Pip stayed close to the earth—but never stopped flying.
Because flying isn’t always about wings.
Sometimes it’s about kindness.
About believing.
About helping others rise, even when you’re small.
Now here’s the part just for you, little one.
Because you’re listening, aren’t you?
Maybe from behind a belly.
Maybe from the space between heartbeats.
But you’re here.
And you are like Pip.
You’re small now. Still growing.
But you have dreams—ones you don’t even know yet.
And guess what?
You already make hearts lift.
You already glow, even if you can’t see it.
So tonight, before sleep tucks you in tight,
we say this:
“Little pebble, strong and sweet,
May your dreams have dancing feet.
Fly through sky, float through air,
Know your heart is always there.”
And someday, when you dream something wild,
something big,
something so magical others might not understand—
remember Pip.
And the feather.
And the stardust.
And the way it feels to be loved enough to fly.
Tickle-Feather and the Wind
Let me tell you a story—
A giggly one.
A fluttery one.
A story made of breezes, belly laughs, and soft tickles.
Because every now and then,
the world sends something silly
to remind us that joy doesn’t need to be loud—
it just needs to be light.There once was a feather.
Not a big one.
Not from an eagle or a grand peacock.
Nope.
This feather was tiny.
Soft.
Pale blue with a speck of gold near its tip.
And it loved just one thing in the whole wide world:
Tickling.
It didn’t care for flying long distances.
It didn’t want to be part of a fancy hat or float on stage during ballet recitals.
Nope.
All Tickle-Feather wanted was to make things laugh.
Squirrels.
Snails.
Babies.
Even grumpy old tree trunks.
But there was a problem.
Tickle-Feather couldn’t move on its own.
It needed the wind.
And oh, the wind was… tricky.
One day it blew strong and wild, flipping leaves and tossing kites.
The next day, it barely breathed.
Sometimes it howled, sometimes it whispered.
And sometimes—it was in a mood.
One morning, Tickle-Feather whispered,
“Wind? Will you carry me today?”
The wind grumbled from behind a tall hill.
“Carry you? Again? You only make everything giggle!”
Tickle-Feather beamed proudly.
“That’s the point.”
The wind huffed. “I have better things to do than help a silly little tickler.”
Tickle-Feather sighed but waited patiently.
Because the wind always came back.
Eventually.
Later that afternoon, as the sun warmed the fields and the bees hummed their lazy songs,
the wind snuck back, pretending not to care.
“Fine. One ride. That’s it.”
“Wheee!” said Tickle-Feather, and off they went.
First, they zipped through a meadow.
A sleepy bunny twitched her nose.
Tickle.
A family of beetles wriggled in their little log.
Tickle tickle.
A tired old scarecrow chuckled for the first time in forty years.
Tickle tickle tickle!
And the wind?
It tried not to laugh.
But a soft snort escaped.
“Pfffffft. Stop it!”
“Too late!” shouted Tickle-Feather, looping through the air.
They soared past a bakery.
Out popped the baker’s wife with flour on her nose.
“ACHOO!”
Feather: tickle.
Then past a garden where a grumpy cat lay sunbathing.
Swish. Swish. Twitch.
Feather: tickle.
Then past a window where a baby napped in its crib.
A soft laugh bubbled up from the baby’s chest, even while sleeping.
Feather: tickle.
The wind slowed.
They hovered over a pond, watching ducks drift lazily.
“You’re ridiculous,” said the wind.
“Thank you,” said Tickle-Feather.
“I meant it as an insult.”
“I took it as a compliment.”
The wind sighed. “What’s the point of all this?”
Tickle-Feather curled gently in midair.
“The point is… joy. Lightness. Laughter. That’s how the world breathes.”
The wind was quiet.
But something in its swirls softened.
They flew again.
And this time, the wind didn’t grumble.
It danced.
They whooshed through trees, and the leaves clapped in delight.
They raced dragonflies and somersaulted with thistle seeds.
At one point, the wind lifted so high they nearly touched a cloud.
And the cloud?
It giggled too.
A low, fluffy rumble.
Feather: tickle.
But soon, the sun began to yawn.
Shadows stretched.
And the sky turned golden and purple.
Tickle-Feather drifted lower.
“Time to rest?” asked the wind.
“Almost,” said Tickle-Feather. “One last visit.”
“To whom?”
“To someone listening.”
And they floated… softly… toward a quiet home.
Inside, a gentle hum of lullabies filled the air.
A mother rested with her hand on her round belly.
Her eyes were closed, but her heart was wide open.
And within that warm belly?
A little one.
You.
Listening.
Curled.
Waiting.
The wind hovered by the window.
Tickle-Feather floated down.
Not roughly.
Not to wake.
Just to say hello.
And with the softest kiss of air—
it brushed the mother’s belly.
A little twitch.
A tiny smile.
Did you giggle?
Maybe not with your mouth.
But your toes might have wiggled.
Your fingers curled.
Your dreams danced.
Feather: tickle.
Baby: giggle.
The wind swirled quietly, holding them both.
And for the first time in a long while
it whispered,
“You were right.”
Tickle-Feather didn’t say a word.
Just spun gently in the air like a happy sigh.
Now, little one—
if you ever feel a soft breeze on your cheek,
or laugh at something without knowing why,
or dream of feathers and giggles and breezes—
that’s Tickle-Feather.
Still flying.
Still laughing.
Still loving.
So sleep tight tonight.
Because joy is fluttering nearby.
And no matter how small you feel,
you are part of something light and lovely.
Something full of laughter.
Something like a tickle in the wind.
The Blanket Made of Mom’s Voice
Let me tell you a story.
Not one with dragons or magic spells.
Not today.
Today’s story is soft.
And warm.
And woven from something you already know well—
my voice.
Because sometimes…
a voice can be more than words.
Sometimes, a voice can be a blanket.
Once upon a hush,
in a house wrapped in clouds,
a baby waited to be born.
This baby didn’t cry or coo.
Not yet.
They listened.
To the world above them, beyond them—
a world they couldn’t see,
but could feel.
And most of all, they listened to one sound
that was everywhere and everything all at once:
Mom’s voice.
Her voice tickled through the belly walls.
It echoed like soft footsteps through a hallway of dreams.
It rumbled when she laughed.
It stretched like honey when she sang.
And each time she spoke
the baby’s world shimmered.
One day, Mom whispered,
“Hi, my little love. Can you hear me?”
The baby wiggled.
She giggled.
“I’m going to tell you a story.”
And she began.
Her voice told of skies full of stars,
each one a wish,
each one a kiss waiting to land.
Her voice told of birds who sang lullabies at sunrise.
Of trees who remembered names.
Of a sun who always came back.
Her voice painted pictures, even in the dark.
And as she spoke, a blanket began to form—
but not one you could touch.
No.
This blanket was made of sound.
Thread by thread, word by word,her voice wrapped around her baby.
Each “I love you” was a thread of gold.
Each giggle, a silver shimmer.
Each quiet hum, a layer of velvet light.
And oh—
the songs she sang.
They danced like fireflies in the fabric.
They stitched warmth into the silence.
The baby didn’t know what a blanket was.
But they knew how it felt.
Cozy.
Safe.
Like being held without hands.
And they floated in it,
wrapped in voice.
Some days, the blanket was silly.
Mom would read aloud funny stories.
“Once upon a time, a turtle tried ballet…”
The baby kicked and hiccupped with joy.
Those were the stripes of rainbow yarn,
the threads made of giggles.
Other days, the blanket was quiet.
Mom would sit in a sunbeam,
and simply hum.
The baby would sway gently,
drifting.
These were the soft, deep blues in the blanket.
The gentle folds of calm.
And sometimes…
the voice trembled.
Mom would cry.
Just a little.
Tears dropped into her tea.
Or in the quiet at night.
“I’m scared too sometimes,” she whispered.
“But I’ll be brave for you.
Because you’re already brave for me.”
The baby didn’t understand the words.
But they felt something new in the blanket.
Not broken.
Not sharp.
Just a thread of truth.
A cool breeze woven into the warmth.
And somehow, it made everything stronger.
As the days passed, the baby grew.
Their fingers curled.
Their toes stretched.
Their heartbeat tapped its little drum.
And all around them,
the voice kept stitching,
knitting sound into soul.
Sometimes, the baby would push back—
a tiny foot here, a little elbow there.
And Mom would laugh.
“Well, excuse me! Someone’s doing gymnastics in there.”
She’d tap her belly,
like knocking on a tiny door.
And the baby would knock back.
Thump. Thump.
A secret code.
A giggly rhythm.
More threads.
More love.
More blanket.
One rainy evening,
Mom sat near the window.
The wind swirled.
The rain tap-danced on the glass.
She spoke gently,
her voice curling like steam from a cup of cocoa.
“I don’t know who you’ll be,” she said.
“Boy, girl, silly, serious, dancer, scientist…”
She smiled.
“But whoever you are,
I’ll always be your home.
Your warm.
Your soft.
Your sound when the world gets too loud.”
Outside, a thunderclap boomed.
Inside, the baby kicked.
And Mom laughed again.
“Don’t worry. I’ve got you.”
She pressed her palm to her belly.
“Wrapped up safe.
Wrapped up in me.”
One night, she didn’t say much.
She was tired.
So she just hummed a lullaby.
Over and over.
Softly.
The baby listened,
drifting on each note like a little boat.
And as they floated into sleep,
the blanket wrapped tighter.
Not heavy.
Just snug.
Like a promise.
And then—
One day—
Everything changed.
The world tilted.
The warm pool of silence shifted.
The sounds stretched and snapped.
The baby felt pressure.
Movement.
A rush.
And then—
Light.
And cold.
And strange sounds.
And then…
A voice.
The same one.
The only one.
Closer now.
Clearer.
She whispered,
through tears and wonder:
“Hi.
It’s me.
I’m right here.”
And the baby—
new to the world,
eyes blinking,
heart racing—
settled.
Because the voice was still there.
The blanket was still there.
Not around their body.
But around their soul.
Later that night,
in a quiet hospital room,
Mom rocked her baby in her arms.
She hummed.
She sang.
She whispered.
And the baby, so new,
knew something without knowing:
This voice is mine.
This voice is home.
This voice… is my blanket.
And even now,
as you grow bigger each day—
as your hands reach,
your feet run,
your world expands—
that blanket stays with you.
You carry it in your breath.
In your dreams.
In the little hums you make when you’re tired.
In the songs you’ll sing one day.
And someday—
far, far from now—
when you whisper to your own little belly,
that blanket will grow again.
Because love never unravels.
Sleep well, baby.
I’ll keep wrapping you in my voice
for as long as I’m here.
And maybe even longer.
Button the Bunny Finds a Beat
In a cozy hollow, not far from a field of tulips and tea-colored clouds, lived a bunny named Button.
Button was soft as a whisper, warm as a sunbeam, and just a little bit curious about… everything.
But more than anything else in the whole wide world, Button loved sounds.
Not the loud, scary kind.
No thunderclaps or crashing pans for this bunny.
No sir.
Button liked the gentle sounds.
The steady ones.
The kind that made his big bunny ears twitch with happiness.
Like the rustle of leaves in the morning.
The tip-tap of raindrops on mushrooms.
The whoosh of wind through tall grass.
And, most of all…
The beat.
Now, Button didn’t know exactly what “a beat” was.
But he knew how it felt.
It was there in the hop-hop of his feet.
In the ba-dum of his heart.
In the sway of the flowers when the breeze came through.
There was rhythm everywhere—and Button wanted to find his very own beat.
One morning, Button woke up and said out loud (though no one was really listening):
“I’m going to find the beat that belongs just to me.”
And off he went.
His first stop?
The brook.
It bubbled and giggled, splashing against pebbles and mossy logs.
Button tilted his head and listened.
“Blup… blup… blup-blup-blup.”
He tapped his paw along the bank.
Nice.
But not quite his beat.
Next, Button visited the meadow.
Crickets were chirping. Bees were buzzing. A woodpecker was knocking on a tree like it had forgotten its key.
Button’s ears perked up.
He tried to hop in time with the tap-tap-tap of the woodpecker.
And then the buzz-hum of the bees.
But everything was just a little too fast… or too busy… or too not Button.
So Button hopped into the shady forest, hoping the trees would have answers.
He heard the hoot of an owl.
The crack of a twig.
The creak of a branch swinging gently in the wind.
He waited.
Listened.
Closed his eyes.
Still not it.
By lunchtime, Button’s paws were tired and his ears were drooping a bit.
“Maybe I don’t have a beat,” he said with a sniffle.
“Maybe I’m the only bunny without one.”
But just as he turned to hop home…
He heard something.
No—felt something.
A soft, warm thump.
Then another.
And another.
Thump… thump… thump.
Slow.
Steady.
Comforting.
Button’s eyes widened.
He recognized that beat.
It was the same beat that pulsed through the earth when he was curled up tight.
The beat that wrapped around him before he ever opened his eyes.
It was the heartbeat.
And not just any heartbeat…
Mom’s heartbeat.
He followed it like a song only he could hear, hopping gently through the tall grass until he reached their burrow.
And there she was—Mom Bunny, sitting in her nest of leaves and softness, humming a tune so low it almost blended with the soil.
“Hi, Button,” she whispered with a smile. “Did you find your beat?”
He hopped into her arms and nestled under her chin.
“I think… I did,” he said, eyes fluttering.
That night, Button lay on his back under the stars, watching them blink to their own rhythms.
The crickets played again. The brook burbled in the distance.
But he didn’t try to copy them this time.
Instead, he closed his eyes and listened to the quiet inside him.
Thump… thump… thump.
That was his beat.
It had always been there.
He just needed to hear it.
And from that day on, Button didn’t chase after other sounds.
He danced to his own.
Whether hopping, napping, or snuggling, Button carried his beat with him everywhere.
Sometimes he sang along to it.
Sometimes he tapped it out with his toes.
Sometimes he just let it hold him in the quiet.
And every so often, Button would whisper to the stars:
“Thank you for the beat that’s mine.
It’s soft.
It’s steady.
It’s me.”
And the stars would twinkle in reply.
Now, dear baby, maybe you’re just like Button right now.
Listening.
Growing.
Feeling the world through sound.
And maybe—just maybe—there’s a beat you already know.
That soft, steady thump-thump all around you.
It’s my heartbeat.
And I hope it’s your very first lullaby.
Your very first hug.
Your very first rhythm.
So sleep, little one.
You already have a beat.
You already have a song.
You already have love, wrapped in sound.
And just like Button, you’ll carry that beat with you—
wherever you go.
Can I Make Up My Own Stories?
Yes. A hundred times yes. Please do.
You do not need a fancy book or the perfect plot. You already have everything your baby needs—your voice, your love, your presence.
Tell them about your day. What you had for breakfast. What the sky looked like this morning. Tell them about that time you tripped over your own shoelace or how you used to love climbing trees as a kid.
Or make something up. A story where your baby is best friends with a moonbeam. Or one where they ride a whale who loves bubble baths and sings like Elvis. Anything. Everything. Let your imagination run wild.
Because your baby doesn’t care if it makes sense. They don’t need a storyline. They just need you.
What matters most is the sound of your voice. The comfort in your rhythm. The steady beat of love that wraps around every silly word and sleepy sentence.
Let your stories be soft. Let them be weird. Let them wander and loop and drift like clouds.
Let them sound like you.
Because in those made-up moments, something beautiful is happening—you’re building a world of connection. One where your baby knows they’re safe, they’re loved, and they belong.
And that? That matters more than any book ever written.
Final Thoughts (Because This Is About More Than Stories)
No one really says this out loud, but reading to your baby before they’re born isn’t about teaching them anything.
It’s not about school or getting ahead. It’s just about being close. Slowing down. Taking a moment to say, “I’m here. I love you. And I want to share something with you.”
It doesn’t matter what you read. It could be a little story, a prayer, or even something from when you were a kid. Some parents read bedtime books. Some read poems.
Some read mythology stories from around the world — old stories about the stars, the sky, the gods, the earth.
They’re full of wonder and feeling, and when you read them out loud, they can feel really peaceful, even for a baby who hasn’t been born yet.
Your baby won’t understand the words, but they’ll hear your voice. They’ll feel your calm. And that’s what they need. That’s what stays with them.
So read something. Anything. Let it be your way of saying, “You’re already loved. You’re already safe.”
That’s what reading in the womb is really about. Not the book. Just love.
Mark Richards is the creative mind behind Classica FM, a podcast platform that brings stories, knowledge, and inspiration to listeners of all ages. With a passion for storytelling and a love for diverse topics, he curates engaging content—from kids’ tales to thought-provoking discussions for young adults.
