reading room
Children See More
I once saw a crack in the pavement and thought maybe something was trying to escape— a root, a ripple, a hidden word.
Mum said, "It's just the frost," but I knew some things split because they want to grow.
I saw a girl offer her seat on the bus— no words, just a small move that felt like a quiet promise to someone who needed it more. She didn't smile. She didn't know it was the kindest thing I'd seen all day. Maybe she still doesn't.
Once, a puddle held a piece of sky. I told them— the clouds were floating in it— but they laughed and called me dreamy. The next day, the puddle was gone. The sky stayed.
I watched a shadow climb the wall as if it had somewhere to be. I think time moves like that— quiet, slow, and only noticed when you stop playing.
They say children imagine things. But maybe we just see the parts that adults forget— the shimmer on the edge of normal, the meaning tucked behind small things.
We don't grow out of it. We grow around it, like trees bending to fences but never forgetting the sky.
And one day, when it's quiet, we'll remember what it felt like to see without asking why.
Not more, exactly. Just differently. Just deeper.
— Lilith