I see you now, little one—
lost in a classroom,
fidgeting, daydreaming,
never quite fitting the mold
they pressed around you.

You didn’t know why
your mind spun so fast,
why your heart beat with worry
when others sat still.
You tried so hard to be good,
to be quiet, to be “normal,”
but the world kept telling you
you weren’t quite right.

No one named it for you—
not the teachers with their sighs,
not the parents with their puzzled frowns.
You learned to hide your questions,
to swallow your confusion,
to tuck your wildness away
in a box marked “wrong.”

I wish I could go back,
kneel beside you in that noisy room,
take your hand and whisper,
“It’s not your fault.
You are not broken.
You are bright and brave and different—
and that is a gift.”

I grieve for the years you spent
trying to disappear,
for the shame you carried
like a heavy backpack
no one else could see.

But I’m here now.
I found the words we needed.
I see the patterns, the reasons,
the beauty in your scattered thoughts.
I open the box,
let the light in,
and hold you close.

We can be whole,
you and I—
the child who survived,
and the adult who finally understands.

I wake—
and the train fires up.
The first thought goes into the furnace.
Then another.
And another.

The fire swells.
The wheels bite.
The carriage shudders.
We’re moving.

I’m stoking without trying—
every thought is fuel.
Good, bad, doesn’t matter—
the fire eats it all.

Smoke pours in—thick, black,
like a pit on a winter’s night.
The thoughts are starting to choke,
curling and crowding,
filling the air until I can hardly breathe.
I cough. I choke.
Still, the train hurtles on.

No signal. No brakes.
It doesn’t even need a track.
The faster it goes, the heavier the smoke.
I’m as still
as the hands of an unwound clock.

I want to jump.
I want to make it stop.
But the thoughts keep coming.
The furnace roars.
The wheels scream.

And then—
through the haze—
a figure.

She sits beside me.
Takes my hand.
Her voice—soft, but certain—
“It will be all right.”

The fire falters.
The smoke thins.

She leans close,
reminding me of the first time I saw her—
she was the only one I could see,
the only noise I could hear,
the only thing I wanted to breathe.

The train slows.
I can see her face—
just as beautiful as that first night.

I breathe deep,
clearing the air from my lungs,
feeling the wheels ease beneath me.

She stands, still holding my hand.
“Let’s get off this train,” she says.
“You’ve stopped it.
And if the fire starts again—
remember the things that made the world stop:
the first time we met,
the first breath of our son,
a golden sunset,
the monsoon rain.”

The train is always there,
its furnace door open.
But now—
I know how to walk away.
Where the air is clear.
Where her hand is in mine.