When I think about the moments that shaped my life, I do not picture dramatic events or important ceremonies. Instead, I remember a quiet afternoon in a small public library, when I was fourteen years old and profoundly bored. I had gone there only to escape the rain, with no intention of reading anything. But as I wandered along the shelves, running my finger idly across the spines of books, one title caught my eye, and I pulled it out almost without thinking.

I cannot now recall exactly why that particular book appealed to me. What I do remember is sitting down on the floor between the shelves, opening it, and looking up what felt like minutes later to discover that two hours had passed. For the first time in my life, I had been completely transported – lost in a world that existed only in ink and imagination. I borrowed the book, finished it that night, and returned the next day, hungry for another.

That afternoon changed the direction of my life, though I did not realise it at the time. Until then, I had been an indifferent student who regarded reading as a chore imposed by teachers. Afterwards, I became someone for whom books were a source of endless pleasure and discovery. Reading widely improved my writing, expanded my vocabulary and, more importantly, introduced me to ideas and perspectives I would never otherwise have encountered. It taught me, above all, to be curious.

Years later, I became a teacher myself, and I have never forgotten the power of that chance discovery. I know that not every student will be transformed by a single book, and I would never pretend that reading is a magic solution to every problem. But I have seen, again and again, the moment when a young person who insists they “hate reading” finds, almost by accident, the right book at the right time – and I recognise, in their sudden stillness, exactly what happened to me on that rainy afternoon so many years ago.