The quiet apartment smells faintly of soap and sunlight. Your mother stands behind you, carefully adjusting the beige dress over your shoulders. The fabric is soft and flowing, brushing lightly against your skin. Her hands move with practiced gentleness, smoothing every fold, tying the small black ribbon at your neck. You are still a boy, but today she is dressing you as a girl, shaping you with her care and imagination.

She kneels to brush a stray strand of hair from your face, then touches your cheeks with a faint, rosy blush. The soft color warms your face, and you catch your reflection in the mirror—familiar, yet subtly different, softened by her hands, the dress, and the gentle hint of makeup.

“Ready for the park?” she asks, her brown eyes calm but tender, holding out her hand. You take it, feeling a flutter of nervousness and trust. Outside, the park waits—bright, open, and alive, a small world stretching just for the two of you.