I picked up The Power of Fun almost by accident — or maybe by instinct. My fingers brushed the soft matte of the cover, cool against skin, the texture a kind of whisper: “Stay a while.” The words inside weren’t loud either. They didn’t demand attention; they invited it, the way a campfire does when the night gets too cold.

I thought about Riley and Roscoe. How uncomplicated their joy was. How quickly they found comfort in a stranger’s touch. There was something holy about that — like they’d figured out what humans keep forgetting: that happiness doesn’t need proof, only presence.

My mind wandered back to the driver’s words — about following where the dogs sniff. Maybe he was talking about curiosity. Maybe life isn’t about running toward purpose but following the scent of what makes you feel alive.

The light shifted across the room — thin, golden lines cutting through the blinds, landing across the book like underlines written by the sun itself. The warmth on my arm felt like a small apology from the day before — as if the universe was saying, “Here, take this light and start over.”

I caught myself smiling, realizing how much noise I’d been carrying — all the emails, the deadlines, the mental math of being human. Here, in this little library of borrowed thoughts and patient dust, none of that mattered.

The pages of the book smelled faintly like citrus and glue. I ran my thumb along the edge, letting them flutter like a bird shaking off rain. In that sound — soft, staccato, temporary — I heard the same rhythm as the pond’s breeze from yesterday. The same language of calm, just translated through paper instead of water.

By the time I looked up, the coffee beside me had gone cold, its taste bitter but grounding. I didn’t mind. Some things are better that way — reminders that life moves even when you don’t.

Maybe that’s the real power of fun — not the laughter or the play, but the permission to pause. To look at two dogs by a pond, or a book by a window, and realize you’re already where you’re supposed to be.