Date: Backdated to 9 June 2011
Time: Late morning to mid-afternoon
Location: National Gallery, London





It was a rare occasion when Cyrus got to spend time with his mother, an even rarer one when she took him on a trip like they used to go on for his father's work. Now that he lived with his Aunt Teresa and Uncle Eric, the toddler mourned the days he used to spend with his mother and father – but he was getting to the point where, most days, he remained jubilant and didn't think about it too much. His mother still dropped by all the time, all cheerful smiles and warm words and familiarity, so he got to have three parents instead of just two. He was even forgetting the bad parts about his dad since he was soaking in his mother's radiance.

But he'd known about the trip to England for ages. Aurelie had told Teresa and Eric that she wanted to take Cyrus to England for a week, to try to get rid of the taint the boy's father had left on her perception of Europe. While Cyrus was no longer under her legal guardianship, she had been steadily working on her issues while continuing to spend time with him in hopes that they would not lose their relationship.

After trying all sorts of restaurants and taking cute, touristy photos with all sorts of monuments, Cyrus and Aurelie were now going to the National Gallery, and afterwards, they were going to have tea.

Surprisingly, the boy was well-behaved. He might have been young, but he knew vaguely of what people said about him the few times he tagged along on his dad's work trips. 'Schuyler, why won't that son of yours be quiet?' or 'Can you please remove that noisemaker from the room?' were sentiments Cyrus had gotten used to, and even at his pre-school, he was used to being too much for his teachers and sometimes the other kids.

But for his aunt, his uncle, his mother, he was always enough. Always, always, always.

So as he wore his polo with a hand-embroidered duck (courtesy of Aurelie) where the polo player usually would be, he primly held onto his mother's finger as the two observed the artwork on the walls. Cyrus's blue gaze was full of a sort of serenity, his tufts of blond hair curling around his ears and sticking up on top of his head to make a strange type of halo. He looked at each artwork as if traversing a barrier into another world.

When the two left the museum, Cyrus bounded by his mother's side and leaned on her leg. 'Mommy, I want to do that one day,' he murmured.

'Hm?' Aurelie looked down at her son.

They had paused near a building, just out of the way of any busy pedestrians.

'Mon petit soleil, could you repeat that?'

Cyrus giggled at the nickname. 'I wanna be an artist,' the boy clarified, standing straighter. 'I wanna paint! Make things so good, so real, everyone'll think my imagina- ima-' He had to pause. He took a deep breath and sounded it out slowly. '-my im...agin...ation... is their own!' He closed his mouth, thought for a moment. 'That painting, it made me happy. I wanna make stuff, good stuff, stuff that brings smiles!'

Aurelie smiled warmly at Cyrus, who was now bouncing from side to side on his toes. She pulled him closer, giving him a hug, before letting him hold onto her hand as the two continued to head towards their next destination. They walked in silence for a few minutes, good silence, but Aurelie broke it just as kindly. 'Cy, just keep being yourself,' she said softly. 'Even if things get hard. Just keep smiling, keep creating, keep being your radiant, joyful self, no matter what others tell you.'

He stopped walking for a moment, almost tripping over his own feet. Aware he was in a city, he kept walking, but he was now fully reliant on his mother's physical guidance since his gaze was caught on hers. He didn't understand all the words – radiant truly meant nothing to him, except it had to be good because his mother had said it. But he smiled. 'Okay,' he conceded, not really thinking much of it, more focused on the warmth that was his mother's hand in the breezy summer morning, more focused on the subliminal beauty of the museum and the world around him, more focused on the sun that shone down on them when the clouds parted for even a moment.

Maybe he could do that, one day, be a force of subliminal, radiant good on the world. But the world was good right now. All he had to do was walk alongside it, soak it all in, and everyone would be happy. There was no need for him to be the sun when the sun was right there in all its splendour.

Finally, they arrived at the tea room, and he hurried after his mother. He was just a happy, light-hearted boy without a care in the beautiful world.