Early morning light spills through the kitchen window in golden waves, stretches long across the worn carpet floors and laps at your feet. The house is still, save for the slow drip of the sink and the rhythmic ticking of the clock above the stove. Outside, the world is waking up—a garbage truck passes by, birds chatter the morning news and the wind whisks it away, winding through the trees and sending the gossiping leaves into a frenzy.

You’re sat on the floor, legs outstretched and unsteady; chubby fingers planting firmly on your knees for support. Dust dances in the air just beyond your grasp, spinning, shifting and catching in the light like tiny stars. You take a wobbly swat at the air and quickly think better of it, instead, content just to watch in wonder.

Your mother watches from the kitchen table, her chin resting in her palm, exhaustion tugging at the edges of her features. But when she sees your joy, she smiles—soft, genuine, the kind of smile that reaches her eyes but only halfway. She doesn’t question why the dust moves the way it does. Why it dances. Why it sways.

Neither do you.

And neither do I.

But I feel it.

Tugging at me.

A realization.

Fragile but forming, like the dust churning in the air.

I should not be able to move things. Not really. Not in any way that matters. But here you are, reaching, laughing, watching something I have made.

And I think—for you, maybe—I can. Just a little.