Styrofoam planets orbited the blackboard as Ms. Smith explained electrons' atomic ballet. Vince, usually silent, piped up, "But how can tiny electrons dance?" A ripple of amusement, quickly stifled, ran through the class. Even Ms. Smith faltered.

"Interesting question," she said, a touch strained, "but not quite relevant."

Vince's shoulders slumped. But then, Claire, known for her sharp wit, chimed in, "What kind of question is that? Of course they can't dance!"

The class held its breath. Ms. Smith's knuckles tightened. But Vince, emboldened, countered, "Why not? Everything moves, right? Maybe their dance is different, like...spinning really fast?"

Silence stretched. Claire opened her mouth, but Ms. Smith, eyes fixed on Vince, spoke, "Actually, Vince, that's a great question. Scientists are still figuring out how electrons behave. We might not call it dancing, but their movement does have similar properties."

Relief flooded the room. Claire mumbled an apology. Ms. Smith continued, her lecture now charged with a new energy, fueled by Vince's curiosity and the realization that even the "silly" questions could hold value. And Vince, the boy with galaxies in his eyes, learned his unique perspective wasn't just tolerated, but valued. And that, perhaps, was the most important lesson of all.