The quiet after naptime is a kind of holy

I watched a child wake up slowly, not blinking but just… arriving. Her hand found the edge of her blanket like she was reading braille. The room smelled like dust and old socks and something else—like time folding in on itself. I didn’t say anything. Didn’t fix the pillow or smooth the sheets. Just stood there, shoulder-level with her confusion, breathing in sync with the silence. It wasn’t peace. It was presence. And that’s enough.