“Once upon a time,” her mother began, tucking the blanket a little closer under her daughter’s chin, “there was a musician who loved to play the piano late at night. He would sit very quietly, just him and the keys, and let his fingers wander. And when the notes came out, oh, how beautiful they sounded! They seemed to breathe, almost as if they were alive, whispering secrets in the dark.”

The little girl blinked slowly, listening.

“But one night,” her mother continued, her voice lower now, gentle as a lullaby, “the musician had a curious thought. He wondered if the music was really alive, or if it was only him imagining it so. And then he thought about himself. His brain, busy and full of sparks, was making this person he called I. Just like the piano made sounds. Maybe he wasn’t separate from his brain at all, maybe I was just another song being played.”

She stroked her child’s hair, pausing long enough to let the idea float like a feather.

“And the musician laughed softly, because it meant he was just like his music. The notes weren’t truly alive, but when you listened closely, they seemed to be. And isn’t that wonderful? To pretend together. To believe for a little while that the world is singing.”

Her daughter’s eyes had drifted shut. Her mother leaned close.

“And so, my love, the musician learned a little secret: wisdom is not about proving what’s real or not real. Wisdom is listening to the music, even if it fades, and loving it anyway., especially if it snores”