In the corner of the classroom, sunlight slanted through the window, stretching the shadow of a desk into a long quiet shape. An exercise book rested on top, its cover slightly curled, as if someone had left it there without much thought. On the page, a few pencil strokes formed a tiny human figure—big head, small body, lines so simple that the limbs weren't even fully drawn.
The student had been feeling restless that day, and in the empty space of the workbook, she doodled this little figure. No name. No story. No outfit or design. Just a few casual lines. She even muttered, "Whatever, I'll just draw something. Nobody's gonna care."
After finishing, she closed the book with a careless flip and slipped it into her bag without taking another look.
Draft lay quietly on the page. Her lines were soft and fragile, like feathers that could be carried away by a breeze, yet stiff enough to look as if she might freeze in place at any moment. She had no voice, no movement—simply resting there like a forgotten shadow in a forgotten corner.
Light shifted over the paper, catching on every pencil mark and making them shimmer faintly in gray. Draft's gaze seemed almost present, though no one could see it. She lifted her head, looking around, but there was only emptiness and silence—no classroom noise, no laughter from students. Just still air and sunlight broken into thin patches.
Then, one line trembled.
Soft as a feather landing on a table, or like a kitten flicking its tail.
Draft jolted slightly, as if a strange awareness rippled through her. Her tiny body shivered, the uneven lines of her arms and legs twitching as she tried to stretch them.
"…Did I… move?"
Her voice was barely a whisper, like the sound of paper rustling. She lowered her head and stared at her nearly shapeless body—big head, small torso, limbs made of wobbly lines without clear fingers. But to Draft, these simple strokes weren't incomplete; they were simply her.
She bounced once, then tried taking a step. The movement was clumsy, her lines trembling, but she managed to stay upright. She raised her head, and the two little dots that served as her eyes shimmered with curiosity. She touched her face, feeling the coldness of graphite and the grain of paper.
Quietly, she murmured, "Who… am I?"
In the silence, her gaze shifted to the pencil lying beside her. It was the only thing that felt familiar—her first tool, the thing that gave her shape, as if it held some small, mysterious power. She wrapped her hand around it, imagining that she could draw her world, maybe even draw herself.
"…Do I have a name?"
She thought for a long moment. Then her mouth curved slightly.
"…Draft."
A short name, simple yet warm, like a ray of sunlight. Draft lifted her thin little arms—half waving hello, half confirming her own existence. The pencil trembled lightly in her hand, as if answering back: You can shape yourself.
She took another step, careful and slow. Her lines rippled gently across the page like water spreading in rings. She hopped, skipped over a faint guideline, even tried a little roll. Each motion surprised her—she could move these lines, she could make herself stop or leap or turn.
Draft looked around. Her paper world was small, but it felt full of possibilities. Desks, stationery, patches of light and shadow—each corner carried a hint of something mysterious, like hidden doorways waiting for her to discover.
She crouched and touched the edge of the page, feeling the texture of paper and the coolness of pencil marks. Suddenly, her hand brushed the border of the book, and a tiny tremor rippled through it. Draft's eyes widened. Her lines quivered.
She hadn't expected a reaction—the page lifted slightly, the book gave the faintest shake, and even the sunlight seemed to shift, bending the lines around her as if coming alive.
Draft tried stepping forward again. The ground wavered beneath her; she swayed but didn't fall. Her toes tapped the paper's edge—it felt like stepping on moving light. She reached toward the pages again, sensing a gentle pull drawing her toward somewhere unknown.
"Where… is this?"
Her voice was soft, laced with curiosity. Her heartbeat quickened, bright excitement glowing in her little round eyes. The ground rippled beneath her feet, and the paper, the light, the classroom itself began to loosen and distort. Desks, walls, sunlight—all of them blurred like ripples spreading across water.
Draft tightened her grip on the pencil, steadying herself. Every small movement she made was echoed by the page—the lines flickered faintly as if responding, almost whispering:
You belong here.
Suddenly, the light flared.
A gentle force pulled her in.
Draft let out a startled cry as her body spun, lifted like she'd been tossed upward yet caught by something soft. When she opened her eyes again, the world had completely changed.
She stood in a strange, shimmering space where light and lines twisted around each other. The ground wasn't solid. Bits of paper scraps and stray sketches drifted in the air like lost memories. It wasn't a classroom, nor a school, nor anything she had known.
Her heart raced—but not from fear. From wonder.
She took her first step, the pencil glowing faintly in her grasp as if cheering her on. In the distance, she saw something—shapes like unfinished creatures, or another abandoned sketch, faint but alive.
Softly, she whispered, "Is… is this where my story begins?"
The pencil tip quivered gently, as if nodding.
Draft smiled—tender as pencil dust drifting across paper, bright as sunlight brushing the page.
> "Alright… Draft is ready."
She stepped forward, firm and fearless, toward the unknown.
Her real adventure was only just beginning.