Do you remember when we watched the magician's tricks?
The way he produced music from thin air?
I only recollect your child-like wonder, which was all the more authentic for the simple reason that you were still a twelve-years-old in my eyes.
Uncertainty clouded the skies over our heads, crowded together in a small space.
even as the birds pushed against pure air with their wings; people flexing their mouths,
flapping their lips freely.
No amount of that magic could procure an ounce of the meaning behind your honey-and-the-moon smile, the one that kept me chained on the spot even as liberty appeared on the horizon.
I focus now on making that smile reappear,
like a magic trick we used to know.

Because it's winter now, and I still haven't answered your question.
What is the value of a good story?