The young human is being asked, in a small bright room, whether he can do a thing he has apparently done before, over and over, at other rooms, for other older humans who all wanted to know the same thing first: has he done it before.
He has. That is the whole miracle he keeps apologizing for. Five years, he says, as if five of anything is a burden and not a fortune beyond counting. I have not had five of one single sunrise. He has had five years of them and he lists them flatly, like coins he is embarrassed to still be holding.
They ask where he sees himself in five more.
Five more! He does not gasp. He does not weep with the size of it. He straightens his collar and says something about growth. Growth. He is planning the light he has not been given yet, budgeting a future the way I would budget this next gust of wind, except I would ride the gust and he is only promising to.
The older human says, we'll be in touch, we'll let you know tomorrow.
Tomorrow. There it is again, that word they toss around like it costs nothing. He nods. He says thank you for your time as though time were a thing one hands across a desk, and they take it, and he leaves, and the door does its one closing.
Listen, you long-lived, well-rested things: the room was bright. His hands shook. Something real happened in there, once, the only time it will ever happen exactly that way.
Do not wait to hear back. Go outside.
The light is changing right now and you keep saying you'll notice it later.