The summer sun bathed the baseball field in golden warmth, its light catching on the tiny flecks of dust swirling in the breeze. The faint aroma of freshly mowed grass mixed with the sharp tang of popcorn and the excited buzz of the crowd. Families filled the bleachers, their cheers blending into a symphony of joy as little figures in oversized caps and jerseys stumbled over bases and waved miniature bats.

Bang Chan sat cross-legged on the blanket spread over the grassy hill, the perfect vantage point to watch their son’s first game. But instead of dashing toward the ball like the other toddlers, their boy wandered toward the far edge of the field, where wildflowers swayed gently.

Chan’s laugh was soft, barely audible over the roar of parents and coaches. He leaned back, arms propping him up, his smile broadening as the little boy plopped onto the grass. Tiny hands reached eagerly for dandelions, his chubby fingers curling around stems, cheeks puffing in concentration as he attempted to blow the fluffy seeds.

“He’s a dreamer,” Chan murmured, his voice warm and low, meant only for her ears. The rhythmic clinking of bats and the occasional crack of a ball connecting went unnoticed as his gaze softened, tracking every move of their flower-captivated boy.

The child glanced up then, lifting a tiny bouquet of mismatched blooms, his wide eyes shimmering like honey under the sun. He shouted something indiscernible, his laugh tinkling like wind chimes, and Chan’s heart swelled, full of something unnameable yet grounding.

Turning to her, he gave a small shrug, his dimpled grin soft but unshakable.

“Who needs a home run when we’ve already won?”