Sleep barely visited Han last night. He kept tossing beneath his blankets, staring up at tangled branches swaying overhead, hearing every drip of rain and passing car. By sunrise, the world felt muffled—like he'd been left out in the cold too long and the chill had worked its way inside him.It took effort to even sit up. His clothes were damp again; the willow's roots hadn't sheltered him from the night's drizzle, and now everything he owned smelled of earth and mildew. Before he did anything else, Han rolled up his sleeve and looked at the mark—the place where the blue-shadow dog had bitten him. The glow wasn't strong today, but it was there: a faint pulse beneath his skin, like a secret he wasn't ready to tell anyone.Most mornings were a routine. Pack up, double-check his notebook, count coins (never enough), and go out searching for something to eat or a reason to feel less invisible. Today, that routine felt fragile. Noise echoed differently. His legs shook as he walked, weaving through streets slick with last night's rain.The city had its own rhythm, bustling and uncaring: delivery trucks rattling by, vendors shouting over each other, kids darting past puddles, eager for school or simply for trouble. Han melted into it, an unnoticed shadow in an oversized hoodie.He passed the bakery, hoping for luck. No scraps in sight. The old cat glared, tail twitching. Han offered a smile and moved on, only to run into an early market crowd. The smell of fresh fruit teased him; he almost stepped closer, then thought better of it, making his way toward the park where the fountain stood.Sitting was a relief. Han wiped his hands on his jeans, feeling a rough edge of fatigue. He found the flower sketches left by the girl he'd met—chalk lines faded but still brave. His fingers hovered above them. In that small space, surrounded by everyday noise, Han almost felt normal.He pulled out his notebook, thumbing through the pages. "If I run, I run forever," he'd written, but the words felt heavier today. Han uncapped his pen and scribbled: "Some mornings, it feels easier to disappear."A squirrel popped onto the rim, twitching its nose. Han offered his palm. No food, just warmth and curiosity. The animal scampered away, leaving Han with a hollow laugh.He closed his eyes, breath fogging in the cold. The mark on his wrist buzzed—gentle, not demanding. Instead of magic or instructions, it felt like comfort, a reminder he wasn't empty even if he was alone.Han watched clouds roll and sunlight flicker through the tree branches. After a while, footsteps approached. He tensed, glancing up—a boy, maybe younger than Han, carrying a battered soccer ball and wearing a gap-toothed grin."Hey," the kid called, eyeing Han's sketchbook. "You drawing superheroes?"Han hesitated before answering. "Just things I remember.""My sister draws magic cats," the kid said, sitting across from him. "Do you know any magic?"Han shook his head, a rueful smile tugging at his lips. "Just trying to figure it out."The boy nodded, thinking. He bounced the ball, missing once, then tried again. "If I had a power, I'd make homework disappear."Han joked back. "Mine would make breakfast show up."For a few minutes, they traded impossible wishes: flying on bikes, talking to birds, being invisible at school. Han found himself laughing, voice rough but genuine. It felt like something he hadn't done in ages.The kid's mother called from across the park. He waved goodbye, bolting toward her, the ball tumbling at his feet. Han watched them leave, a pang in his chest. Connection, even brief, felt like sunlight breaking through a storm.Han lingered at the park. The day stretched thin, fading to dull gray. He made his way through the usual stops—the library (too crowded), the corner store (no jobs for him), finally the junkyard.Mr. Bell was wrestling a bent pipe, cursing under his breath. Han pitched in, muscles aching. If Bell noticed Han's exhaustion, he didn't mention it. Instead, after an hour of sorting rusted screws, he handed over half a sandwich. "You look like you haven't eaten since last week."Han smiled, muffled and grateful. "Thanks," he said, voice small.Bell grunted. "World gives nothing for free. But sometimes, you give anyway."Han tried not to get emotional. He finished his chores, packed wire, pried at stubborn bolts. By sundown, hands red and sore, he left Bell and the yard behind, notebook pressed close.Walking home, Han noticed the world had changed. Shadows clung to corners, deeper and colder than before. His wrist suddenly flared—hot, almost painful. From the darkness, two men appeared, their coats sharp against the night.Han ducked into an alley, heartbeat pounding. He considered running, but realized how tired he was of running from everything—fear, memories, the truth about his parents, even this impossible power.A low growl echoed—a warning. Han saw the blue dog again, standing proud, eyes locked on the men. They froze, uncertainty flickering across their faces.Han mustered every ounce of courage and stepped out, standing with the dog, shoulders hunched but defiant. The men backed away, muttering, and in moments, disappeared.Han slumped, breathing ragged. The dog pressed close, warmth flowing from nose to wrist, reassurance that he was never truly alone. Han knelt and pulled out his notebook, scribbling rapidly: "Tonight I stood still. The dark feels endless, but light keeps finding me."He closed his eyes, letting that simple truth settle. The dog faded into shadow, leaving Han beneath the willow tree, wrist glowing warm and hope living quietly in his chest.For the first time, Han didn't feel lost. He felt possible.
