"I can see you when I touch you." I said to my mum when I was seven years old.
"Pfft. What does that mean? I see you too when I touch you." She smiled at me.
"No, I can see what you have done, yesterday or some other time."
"What are you seeing?"
"What you did. Cooking, working, I see the pictures and hear what you talk about."
"That is just your imagination working."
But I knew it wasn't. I didn't like how it would happen so often, just by a touch.
Steve, my little follower, albeit being older than me, was my biggest believer.
"You are sooo cool." He marveled while we played in my room.
"I just don't like that it happens at random." I said. At school, it was just annoying.
"Then think of a word, like with a magic trick."
"You mean a catalyst?" A teacher had mentioned that word and explained it to us.
"Mhmm." His eyes wandered to the coin I rolled from one of my knuckles to the next, a skill my mother had taught me.
"A word..." I followed his eyes and looked at the coin.
