Ethan was six years old, and his days were simple.
He woke up early most mornings, usually before his parents. The house was quiet then, filled with soft sounds—the hum of the refrigerator, the ticking clock on the wall, the radio left on low in the living room. He liked those moments. They felt safe.
Breakfast was always the same. Cereal, milk, sometimes toast if his mother had time. His father would sit across from him, reading the newspaper while sipping coffee. Ethan swung his legs under the table, watching the way the sunlight slipped through the window and landed on the floor.
After school, he played outside with the other kids. Sometimes they ran through the street, sometimes they rode bicycles until the sky turned orange. Other days, Ethan stayed inside, drawing or tapping rhythms on the table with his fingers. No one paid much attention to it. He was just being a kid.
In the evenings, the three of them ate dinner together. They talked about small things—what Ethan learned at school, what his father did at work, what his mother cooked that day. The radio stayed on in the background, filling the house with quiet music.
Ethan listened more than he spoke.
One night, after dinner, his parents sat with him in the living room. The television was off. The room felt calm.
His mother smiled at him.
"Ethan, your teacher told us she asked everyone what they want to be when they grow up."
Ethan looked up.
"Okay."
His father leaned back on the couch.
"So we wanted to ask you too. What do you want to be when you're older?"
Ethan didn't answer right away.
He stared at the carpet, thinking. He had thought about this before—many times—but saying it out loud felt different. Bigger.
"I want to be a musician," he said quietly.
His mother's smile softened.
"A musician?"
"Yes," Ethan said, nodding. "I want to make music."
His father chuckled lightly. "That's a good dream. What kind of music?"
Ethan hesitated. He didn't know how to explain it properly. He only knew how it felt.
"I don't know yet," he said.
"But I want to play an instrument. I want to make songs."
His mother reached out and brushed his hair. "That sounds nice."
"It won't be easy," his father said gently.
"Being a musician takes a lot of practice."
"I know," Ethan said. His voice was small, but sure.
They sat quietly for a moment. No one laughed. No one argued.
His parents exchanged a look
"Well," his mother said,
"if that's what you want, you can try. You're still young."
Ethan smiled. Not wide. Just enough.
That night, lying in bed, he stared at the ceiling and imagined music filling the room. He didn't know when it would happen or how. He just knew that someday, he wanted to make sound of his own.
For now, that was enough.