Last evening, during my afternoon walk, I heard the voice of a child coming from the veranda of the neighboring villa.

"I have a bicycle," said the silhouette of a girl, perhaps 5 or 6 years old.

I told her that the bike was so beautiful, even though it was dusk, and I could barely make out the silhouette of the bicycle.

"I's my birthday today. And my dad bought it for me," said the little girl. I wished her a happy birthday and told her that good girls always receive gifts.

With the pleasant feeling that this little exchange created, I continued on my way. If she had been a bit older, say 10 or 12 years old, I thought to myself, she likely wouldn’t have spoken to me to share the joy of her day with a random stranger.

And I couldn’t quite explain why, as time passes, the childlike inclination to speak about one's emotions, to share happiness or sadness with others, fades or even disappears.

Anyone who has an answer—or even a guess—is kindly invited to tell me.