Mira sat cross-legged on her rug, surrounded by toppled blocks and mismatched socks. The light in the room flickered as clouds swallowed the sun. Inside Mira, something heavy twisted, rumbling like thunder far away.

Mira frowned, trying again to pull her sock up just right, but it twisted uncomfortably. The block tower, once tall and proud, now lay in ruins. From the doorway, Mama called, "Not now, Mira." The storm inside Mira grew louder.

Mira squeezed her fists, blinking back tears. The storm inside her whooshed out—her feet stomped, tears streamed, and a roar escaped her lips. She didn’t want to cry or shout, but the storm demanded to be heard.

Mama[/@ch_2] stands with a gentle but tired smile, her hands busy making snacks.] Mama tried everything: hugs, stories, warm snacks, and soft songs. She made charts with stickers and read thick books late into the night, searching for ways to calm the storm. But no matter what she tried, Mira’s storm kept returning—sometimes big, sometimes small, but always there.

Sometimes, Mama’s voice snapped, sharp as a twig. She didn’t shout often, but when she did, a little storm rumbled inside her, too. That evening, Mama sat alone, shoulders slumped, the weight of the day pressing down.

Mira climbed into Mama’s lap, curling close beneath her arm. They stayed like that a long while, breathing together, letting the storms inside them settle. No words were needed; just warmth, steady and shared.

The next morning, peace lingered in the quiet hum of daily life. Mira sat at the table, drawing swirling clouds and golden sparks, while Mama hummed softly, making breakfast. The air was lighter, hope weaving through every note.

Inside her storm, Mira found a space of calm—a steady, shining place deep within. She smiled, knowing that, even when storms came, she could always find her way back. Sometimes, the brightest light lives deep inside the storm.