The afternoon sun pooled across the rug. Nayel knelt before a tower of wooden blocks, his brow furrowed, one finger bracing the smallest piece on top. He held his breath — the block trembled, then settled. Somewhere down the hall, a soft crinkle sounded. A diaper, moving steadily toward him.
Nayel froze. The tiniest block wobbled — left, right, left again. He did not blink. His arm hovered like a statue's. The toddler reached out, fingers spread wide, drawn to the colorful tower like a bee to flower. Nayel's heart hammered silently against his ribs.
Nayel shifted his weight and gently guided the toddler's hand away. 'Careful, little one,' he whispered. The block held. The toddler's lower lip pushed out in a wobble, his big eyes filling with a quiet protest. Nayel exhaled — just a breath, just enough.
They started again. This time, Nayel chose the wider bricks for the base — three in a row, solid and sure. The toddler clapped his hands: clap-clap! Nayel jumped, nearly toppling the new foundation. The toddler giggled at his own loud music.
Nayel balanced a yellow block, then a blue one, then another red — the tower growing taller, steadier. The toddler watched, chin in his hands, mesmerized. Then came the sneeze: 'Achoo!' The vibration shook the air. The tower gave a violent wobble, listing hard to the right.
Nayel lunged — arms out, body twisting — and caught the falling blocks just before they hit the floor. He landed on his knees, breathless, a pile of wood nestled in his lap. The toddler clapped again, then grabbed Nayel's nose with both hands. Nayel stared at him, then sighed, and laughed.
'You're chaos,' Nayel said, but his smile gave him away. The toddler booped his nose again and climbed into Nayel's lap, pressing his whole body against him like a tiny, warm sun. Nayel wrapped an arm around those small shoulders. He did not mind the chaos. Not really.
Later, they sat on the sofa together, a plate of toast between them. The toddler tore his piece in half and offered a chunk to Nayel. Crumbs rained down onto Nayel's shirt. He picked one up and ate it anyway. The toddler chewed happily, legs swinging.
Nayel leaned his head against the toddler's. The toddler leaned back, resting his cheek on Nayel's shoulder. Outside, a bird called once, twice, then fell quiet. The room held still, breathing slowly, wrapped in golden silence.
Dust motes drifted through the sunbeam like tiny stars. Nayel watched them — spinning, drifting, landing, rising again. The toddler's breathing slowed, deep and even. Nayel did not move. He did not want to miss a single one.