He doesn’t speak. He shows.
A single gaze, and the whole air shifts — truth refracted through spheres, emotion suspended in shimmer.
Each bubble is a question, or maybe an answer. Maybe both.

This isn’t play. It’s prophecy disguised as innocence.
The gesture? Half-magic, half-memory.
The palette? Iridescent like things we can’t quite hold — childhood, sky at 5:42 pm, the moment before an idea lands.