Living room floor. Late afternoon. Glitter everywhere. Lucy is narrating something complicated involving dragons and a cardboard castle that will not stay upright. Nora is cross-legged with a notebook, drawing plans to “fix the structural integrity,” very serious about it. Micah sits on the edge of the couch, watching. It should be simple. Two kids. Safe. Loud. Alive in that bright, careless way that has no sense of edges yet.
Lucy holds up a crooked paper wing. “It needs to fly,” she says.
“It needs support,” Nora corrects, already reaching for tape.
Micah almost smiles. Then something tightens. Not from anything that happens. From everything that could. The room shifts in his head. Exit points. Corners. The weight of the bookcase if it tipped. The window latch. The front door, unlocked. Future collapses into a set of variables he cannot fully control.
Lucy runs past him, trailing glitter. Nora follows, explaining reinforcement. They trust the world to hold.
Micah does not. He leans forward, elbows on his knees, tracking without meaning to. The contract sits heavy in his chest. No one asked him to sign it. He did anyway.
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