Han started the morning with sore muscles and a heavy heart. He couldn't remember the last time he'd slept well, but today felt worse. Memories from the night before crowded his mind—the strange men at the junkyard, the paw print glowing with faint blue light, and the persistent warmth on his wrist, as if someone had placed a living ember beneath his skin.He shrugged on his hoodie and left the shelter of his willow tree. The previous night's rain hung in the air, cold and sticky, and mist curled in the gutter. Han's sneakers squelched with every step. He tried to tell himself he was just tired, that all this weirdness was some half-dream spun from loneliness and sleeplessness. But he knew it wasn't true. Every time he flexed his hand, the mark pulsed with a ghostly rhythm, quietly reminding him that he was different, whether he liked it or not.He wandered through early morning streets, keeping his head down. The city was already stirring—bus doors hissing, bikes rattling over wet pavement, old women fussing over produce stalls. Nobody looked twice at him. That's how he liked it.But as he crossed an empty lot behind the grocery, Han felt the charge in the air again, a tingling beneath his skin that made the world seem sharper and the colors too bright. He ducked his head and sped up, but the feeling followed, clinging to him like a shadow he couldn't escape.Han's feet carried him to the library. It was warm inside and mostly quiet, filled with the scent of paper and dust. The librarian at the counter barely lifted her eyes from a battered paperback as he slipped past, making his way to the darkest corner where the computers sat unused.He pulled out his notebook and stared at the latest entry. "If I run, I run forever. But if I face it…maybe things change." His own words looked strange, as if someone else had written them.Sighing, Han doodled a little—a dog with mismatched eyes. Without thinking, he added a golden line around one, a silver streak around the other. It occurred to him that he hadn't had a real conversation with anyone in weeks, not since Mr. Bell's gruff warnings and the nodding acquaintance with the bakery cat, who, if Han was honest, still trusted him less than it trusted rain.The computer next to Han flickered on unexpectedly. He jumped, glancing over his shoulder, but no one was there. The blue light on his wrist flared. Before he could process what was happening, words began scrolling across the computer screen:Han's mouth went dry. He glanced at the librarian, but she was lost in her novel. He tapped the keyboard, but the words blinked away, leaving only his reflection in the darkened monitor.He pressed his hand to his chest, feeling his heart's ragged pace. "Seek connection," he whispered. "How? With who?" It echoed like a challenge—one harder, somehow, than outrunning shadows in the alley.Han left the library in a daze. The city no longer seemed indifferent but watchful, every window a set of unseen eyes. He tried to push down his panic as he moved through the crowded streets, weaving between people who barely noticed him. Something inside urged him forward, not with fear, but a strange swelling hope, wild and fragile as spring grass.His trek took him through the park, where children's laughter rang out above the drone of traffic. Han stopped by a cracked fountain and—after checking no one was watching—peeled back his sleeve. The mark shimmered, then stilled as a shadow passed over him.He looked up. A girl—no older than him, with bright red sneakers and a mess of dark curls—stood a few paces away. Her eyes darted to his wrist, then away, as if she'd seen something and wished she hadn't."Sorry," Han said, awkward. "Didn't mean to take your spot."She shrugged, sliding onto the chipped stone rim a couple feet away. "My brother used to draw there," she replied, nodding at the faded flower petals someone had etched into the fountain's edge. "He thought it was magic."Han managed a small smile. "Maybe he was right."She looked at him, really looked, then grinned. "You're not from around here, are you?"Han shrugged. "I guess I'm from wherever I ended up last."The girl pulled out a pencil stub and began tracing the outline of a flower with quick, sure gestures. "You ever wish you could just…press a button and skip the sad parts?""All the time," Han admitted.They sat in companionable silence. Han watched her draw, fascinated by the way her fingers worked—steady, certain, creating something new out of nothing. He felt the mark tingle, not with warning, but with warmth. He risked looking at it. The blue glow pulsed gently, as if it, too, felt less alone.The moment broke when the girl's phone buzzed. She cast him an apologetic look, clutched her pencil, and bounced to her feet. "Gotta go. Don't stay sad forever, okay?" she said, a smile flashing bright and quick. With that, she disappeared into the cherry trees.Han watched her go, feeling suddenly lighter. Someone had seen him—not the weirdness, maybe, but him. It made all the difference, if only for a moment. He wiped his sleeve, hiding the mark again. As he left the park, he realized the quest—connect—might be more about trying than succeeding.That afternoon at the junkyard, Mr. Bell was in a bad mood, tossing wrenches into a box with a little too much force. Han pitched in without being asked.They worked side by side in the fading light, the silence comfortable. At one point, Bell huffed, "You see those men again, you run and don't look back. City's full of ghosts these days.""Ghosts?" Han blurted, half joking.Bell grunted. "People who want to make everyone else disappear."Han didn't say anything, but the idea stuck in his head as he coiled wires and picked through scrap. He wondered if he was a ghost too—half here, half somewhere else, visible only when someone looked hard enough.By sundown, Han's hands ached and his hoodie was streaked with oil. He lingered after Bell left, wandering the fence. The mark on his wrist pulsed brighter, a beacon in the gloom.Near the back gate, Han heard a rustle and tensed. He spotted the blue dog, quiet and watchful, eyes glowing in the dusk.He knelt, heart thumping. "Are you real, or am I just losing it?" he asked, not expecting an answer.The dog padded closer, pressing its nose to his wrist. A wave of heat swept up Han's arm, clearing his head. For the first time, Han didn't flinch. He met the dog's gaze and whispered, "Thank you."The dog's shape flickered, light swelling around its paws. Han blinked and it was gone—but the mark on his wrist no longer felt like a burden. It felt like a promise.When Han finally left the junkyard, he felt taller, steadier on his feet. He walked through the city as darkness fell, watching the streetlights blink on one by one. For the first time in ages, Han believed maybe he could belong somewhere—that the edges of his world weren't just boundaries, but gateways.And as the night carried old regrets and new courage in equal measure, Han scrawled a final message in his notebook: "Today I made a connection. Maybe that's enough for now. Tomorrow…I try again."He tucked the notebook away, facing the shadows with a little more light in his step.
