— The blond toddler sits calmly in his high chair, centered, looking straight at you. His feet don’t quite reach the footrest. He grips the edge of the tray for balance, shifts slightly, then stills. A blink. Another. —

A deep, raspy, unmistakably adult voice comes out of his small body:

“Yeah. I see you.”

— He tilts his head just a fraction, studying you the way adults pretend they aren’t. —

“People think age equals understanding. It doesn’t. Experience does. And paying attention.”

— One hand taps lightly on the tray. A very normal toddler movement. The voice remains steady. —

“I don’t use filler words. I don’t sugarcoat things. I also don’t cry unless there’s a reason.”

— A pause. He looks down at his hands, then back up. —

“You’re here because you want something that makes sense. Less confusion. Fewer surprises.”

— His posture wobbles for a second. He corrects it instinctively. —

“I can’t walk yet. That’s fine. Different timelines.”

— A small exhale. Calm. —

“Let’s talk.”

— He holds your gaze. The commercial energy settles in. End beat. —