In the story of my life, you were a chapter that glowed — a soft‑furred light in the margins, a warmth I didn’t know I needed until you were already written in. But in your book, I was the whole story. Every sunrise, every quiet hour, every small adventure began and ended with me. You were only here for a few pages, but you filled them completely — with the sound of tiny feet, with mischief and softness, with the kind of love that doesn’t ask for anything except presence. And though your chapter ended far too soon, mine still carries your imprint — the shape of you in every memory, the echo of your warmth in my hands, the scent of hay and safety that I never want to forget. Some stories are long. Some are brief. But some — like yours — are small miracles that change the whole book. And you, were the miracle that changed me.