A child gathers small, broken things. Where someone else sees rubbish, there are parts of a world waiting to be assembled.
At night, the stars make that world larger. During the day, other questions arrive. Why is someone hungry? Why is something unfair allowed to stay that way? The answers often sound like instructions to stop asking.
Years pass. Some questions become harder to say aloud. There are wounds to protect and reasons to be careful.
But now and then, an ordinary object catches the light, and the old instinct returns: perhaps something could be made from this.
The child still has a question.
