Hugo's magical moment  

It happened on one of those nights when the sky feels alive — when the stars whisper, and the moon seems close enough to touch.

I was sitting quietly, thinking about all the years behind me — the laughter of my children, the prayers whispered in silence, the dreams that refused to fade. Iris had left her broom by the window, glowing faintly like it knew a secret.

Something inside me stirred.

A voice said, “Why not?”

So I reached for the broom, smiled, and held on tight. The moment my feet left the ground, I wasn’t escaping the world — I was returning to it. The wind carried my name through the night, and for a breathless instant, I was everywhere: in the stars, in the clouds, in every story I’ve ever told.

I flew past memories — the boy I once was, wide-eyed beneath the golden Colombian sun; the father I became, learning that love is the greatest kind of magic; the dreamer I still am, chasing wonder with open arms.

Up there, the world looked small but endlessly beautiful — and I realized that what I’d been trying to write all along wasn’t just a children’s story.

It was a prayer, carried by the wind.

A thank-you, written with light.

A promise, sealed with love.

A prayer — that every child may grow with wonder in their eyes and kindness in their hearts.

A thank-you to God, for life itself — for every sunrise that begins in silence, for every laugh that heals a wound, for every dream that refuses to die.

And a promise — to keep believing, to keep writing stories that lift the spirit, to keep flying toward the goodness that made us.

Because every time we love deeply, forgive freely, laugh loudly, or believe against all odds — we’re already flying.

So yes, maybe it was a moment of mischief when I borrowed Iris’s broom… but it became so much more.

It became a reminder that faith and imagination are siblings, that gratitude is the spark behind every miracle, and that even the most ordinary soul can rise above the clouds when guided by love.

And when I landed again, heart racing, eyes full of stars, I laughed — because I finally understood:

The stories I write aren’t just for me.

They’re for every child who still dares to dream,

for every parent who remembers what it feels like to believe,

and for every heart that still looks up at the sky and whispers,

“Maybe… just maybe… I can fly too.”