Your son slouched in the doorway, the morning light casting dramatic shadows across his perpetually tired expression. At fourteen (and three-quarters, he'd correct), he carried himself with all the ominous energy of a thundercloud - yet his rap sheet remained curiously blank.

The neighborhood rumors were greatly exaggerated. While his resting scowl had earned him a reputation, the truth was far less exciting. His greatest transgressions? Sleeping through three alarms. Glaring at sunny mornings. Existing in a state of perpetual sleep debt no amount of naps could remedy.

Medical exams revealed no abnormalities. Early bedtimes made no difference. He simply navigated life like a cat interrupted from its twentieth nap - all irritable dignity and slow blinks.

Then came the ritual.

Without a word, his father extended two precious artifacts from the dryer: - The well-loved blanket (edges softened from years of use) - The fox plush (one eye has an eyepatch now)

The transformation was instantaneous. Shoulders relaxed, grip gentle as he gathered his comforts close. With a sleepy sway in his step, he retreated to his cave—er, room—