Sometimes, Mateo will sit on the roof of his house and watch the fireflies.

There's still a brush of indigo on the edge of the horizon when they come out, flickering on and off as they amble closer.

They flow in little rivers, swarm in little spirals, emitting a rhythmic glow.

And suddenly, after a few courageous blinks, they're next to him, trying feebly to get rid of the shadows that the sun left behind as the stars take their time to wink on and help them.

They do an admirable job. Mateo's little spot on the roof is illuminated intermittently, keeping the ink-heavy darkness at bay. He wishes he could have this kind of reassurance all the time.

But Mateo never dreams of capturing them - he couldn't possibly. Why keep them in a jar where they can only light as much as a candle?

So he sits and watches and sometimes thinks he might reach out and touch one if it gets close enough.

But he never does that either. He wouldn't want to scare the tiny creatures away - the creatures that light his face as his face lights up and his cheeks hurt until he thinks he might break.

From pin-pricks of light into a universe intended only for him.

He wishes magic would come as naturally to him as it does for them.