Lilli dumps three crumpled, rain-damp papers onto the kitchen table. "Mama, I have THREE things!" she shouts, patting her now-empty pocket.
The last raindrop pings off the window glass. Mama sets down her spoon and leans in.
Lilli unfolds paper one. "I worry the moon falls off when I turn my head too fast," she whispers.
Mama's eyebrows climb up, up, up. "And what happens then?" she asks, chin propped on her hand.
Lilli cracks open paper two. "I dreamed the cat wore MY boots and went to school," she says, eyes wide.
Mama gasps—wide-mouth, bug-eyed—and grabs Lilli's hand. "Does the cat know how to hold a pencil?" she breathes.
Lilli digs into the deepest fold of her pocket. One tiny dried dandelion seed. "A SECRET treasure. Just mine," she murmurs, clutching it flat.
Mama picks it up and blows—gently. The seed spirals, spins, sticks to the ceiling. Lilli laughs so hard milk sprays from her nose.
Sunbeams pour over wet grass. The garden smells like green soap. Dandelion seeds tumble past, light as breath.
Lilli spreads her arms and twirls, stepping soft on the damp path. Through the open door, Mama calls: "The kitchen's open, little seed. All day."