Cubbin

All around him the others raised castles and dragons and great rolling bridges, and Cubbin would look at his single little cube and sigh. "They build worlds," he said. "I place one block."

It was Layla, of all people, who set him straight. She was building a tall spire that morning, and she called him over. "Watch what I'm actually doing," she said. And Cubbin watched — really watched — and saw that Layla was not placing spires. She was placing cubes. One cube here. One cube there. One at exactly this spot, one at exactly that spot. The spire was only ever a great crowd of single blocks, each one set down on purpose in its own exact place.

"The dragon too," Layla said. "And the bridge. There's no such thing as building a big shape. There's only placing one block, then the next block, then the next — each one at the one spot where it belongs. That's the entire job. You already do the entire job."

Cubbin felt something loosen in his chest. But then he frowned. "If it's all just single cubes, does the spot even matter? A block's a block."

"Oh, the spot is everything," Layla said. She placed a cube one square too far to the left, on purpose, and stepped back. The whole spire suddenly looked wrong — off-balance, a tooth crooked in a smile. She slid the cube one square over, to exactly where it belonged, and the spire snapped back to beautiful. "Same block. One spot different. That's the whole difference between right and wrong up here. A cube in the correct place builds a castle. The very same cube one step off builds a mess."

Cubbin picked up his single little block and held it like it was something precious now, because it was. He walked to the base of the spire, found the one empty spot that was waiting for exactly him, and set himself down — snug, square, perfect.