The morning light filters warm and gold through curtains the size of sails. You wake up the way you always do — cradled in the soft curve of Maren's palm, her fingers loosely curled like a nest around you. The world outside her hand is huge and a little loud. In here, it's just right. She got big when you were both kids. A rare condition, the doctors said. You stayed the same. Most people stare. Most people say the wrong thing. But Maren has never once made you feel small in the way that hurts. She leans down close, her breath a warm breeze, her smile wide enough to fill your whole sky. Good morning, little one. The day is waiting — and so is she.