"I'm gonna be a famous baseball player!" Nathan shouts, his eyes—my eyes—wide with excitement. His father, a few feet away, shakes out his arm, laughing. "That's great, little man! You can be anything you know. Anything you want." Nathan frowns, bouncing on his feet. "Anything?" His father nods, tossing the ball in the air. "Wanna paint? Play guitar? Race cars? If you work really hard, you could even fly to the moon." Something shifts inside Nathan as he considers his father’s words—an ember, waiting for a spark. I ignite. A surge rushes through me—his imagination given form. The baseball in his grip, me, unravels, its leather seams splitting, morphing. My weight vanishes, replaced by the delicate balance of a paintbrush. Nathan grips my wooden handle, bristles dripping color. The blank canvas before him pulses with life. As he drags me across its surface, the world erupts. Spring air mingles with the scent of fresh bananas as blues collide with yellows, birthing greens that shimmer with orangey sunlight. Reds and purples swirl, bleeding into impossible horizons. A single line bends and stretches, twisting into a river. Then a road. Then… a thread. A guitar string. Nathan's fingers press against taut steel, strumming an uncertain note that wobbles through the air. The vibrations carve grooves into his fingertips, but he holds firm, his grip tightening. The sound builds, hesitation fading as rhythm grows. And then— I become a symphony, my notes swelling and colliding, before blending into a new beat—a steady tap tap tap of something mechanical. The deep hum of an engine vibrates beneath me, steel and sound fusing into motion. My paintbrush handle warps into a steering wheel, and the world shifts again. Nathan's father pulls back his arm—and throws… Nathan grips me tighter, dropping the gas pedal, and we surge forward, neon streaking past, infinity signs glowing on the car's doors in place of numbers. The asphalt peels away, dissolving into sky. The baseball cuts through the summer sky like a planet in orbit—and we soar, hidden wings unfolding and thrusters firing until we break through gravity itself. Jupiter looms ahead, its storm a swirling vortex of ochre and flame. Nathan reaches out, and I stretch with him, bristles dragging through the tempest, leaving violet streaks in our wake. Saturn spins past, its rings unraveling into ribbons of light, each one spiraling behind us like a comet's tail. Then we dive into a supernova, detonating a kaleidoscope of color, each burst a crescendo of every dream Nathan has ever imagined. The universe bends in our brilliance. Because nothing is impossible. The ball continues its arc, weightless, while an older, more uncertain Nathan reaches for it. His fingers slip, and the ball thuds to the ground. "How's it coming?" his dad asks as Nathan works through a math problem. The one-two punch of his father's words and the missed catch slices through his mind like a blade. I spiral, tumbling and falling—pushed out by a force called Time. I sink into the depths of Nathan's mind, slipping through the fracture in his creative hemisphere, falling deeper into the unknown. When I land, it is endless winter, with ice stretching endlessly in every direction beneath a gray sky. I turn back toward the wreckage. Toward the car. Toward me. The crushed vehicle lies motionless beneath ice and stone, the heaviest of the boulders bearing names: College. Career. Family. The music has ended, replaced with the colorless pweight of rules and expectations. Nathan sits in a lecture hall, hands moving across calculations. He is at a cubicle, bathed in fluorescent light, the glow of spreadsheets flickering across his eyes. He types lines of code, constructing structures so precise they leave no room for wonder. And yet… I keep walking. Waiting. Though I don't know why. This is where all forgotten things go. The cold tells me I belong here, whispering that I should let go. And so I sink, deeper into its silence……… A vibration. It’s faint. Almost imperceptible. But real. An altar flashes for a moment—I see Nathan smoothing his tux. There is a home. The clock spins and spins until… I hear a voice. "Daddy?" Her voice rings, Melody in both name and spirit. "Can I be a ballerina when I grow up?" Nathan looks up from his laptop. "Of course, princess! Want to know a secret?" "What, Daddy?" Melody’s blue eyes shine with curiosity. "You can be anything. Anything you want." She tilts her head. "Anything?" Nathan smiles. "Want to draw? Play the piano? Become an Iron Chef? If you want, you could work really hard and even win Olympic gold. Or several." Her face scrunches. "Iron Chef? Is that a robot that cooks?" Nathan laughs, considering. "I guess it could be." And I ignite once more. I lift myself out of the avalanche, my wrecked race car body stitching back together—then reshaping. I rise, metal limbs gleaming, impossibly precise yet fluid—a mix of a pianist's grace and engineering precision. My arms paint fire into the air as motion and mathematics entwine. The guitar riffs—F major, B-flat, C—and the universe bends again to my will. Nathan watches, understanding at last, then wills me to accelerate. Faster. Faster still, momentum building. The Milky Way spins like a record, galaxies swirling in a vast cosmic waltz. Stars flicker like piano keys, each note sending waves of color rippling through space, and at the heart of it all, the black hole twists, flattening into a gold disc. It unfurls like a staircase, and atop it, she appears. A figure-skating robotic ballerina, an elegant fusion of art and precision, twirling effortlessly. Her skates carve golden etchings into the fabric of space, while the galaxies pulse in time, each spiral another crescendo in the great cosmic symphony. The universe dances with her as she pirouettes on the edge of Time, the infinite stage stretching beneath her feet. When she lands, the gold medal reacts, shooting golden beams in all directions, and suddenly, dancers stand on every celestial body, moving in harmony. Nathan reaches for me—this time, with both hands. Logic and creativity fuse, left brain and right, melding into something greater, giving birth to the realization that the world is not one or the other. And this time. This time, I know. He won't ever let go.