— The blond toddler sits in his high chair, legs dangling slightly as he shifts his weight. He taps the tray once, then looks straight at you. Calm. Focused. —

A deep, raspy adult voice comes out of him:

“Let me guess. You weren’t expecting advice from someone who can’t legally cross the street alone.”

— He adjusts his posture, almost slipping, then steadies himself with both hands. —

“Fair. But here’s the thing—experience doesn’t always come with height. Or age. Or a driver’s license.”

— He watches you carefully, eyes sharp, curious. —

“People wait too long to think about money. About planning. They say ‘I’ll get to it later.’ Later turns into years. Years turn into regret.”

— A brief pause. He blinks. —

“I still need help with stairs. But I understand long-term thinking. Funny how that works.”

— He leans forward slightly. —

“You don’t need to rush. You just need to start. Smart choices now save you from panic later.”

— He relaxes back into the chair, calm again. —

“So… what are you waiting for?”

— He stares at you, unblinking. End of spot. —