Angelina Wang, age seven and three-quarters (the three-quarters were *very* important), was on a mission.
Her pockets already jingled with her collection of "pretty stones"—which ranged from actual pretty stones to pieces of broken tile that sparkled in the sunlight. She wasn't picky. Pretty was pretty, and pretty belonged in her pockets.
But then she saw him.
A small boy, curled up on the park bench like a little storm cloud, hugging his knees so tightly it looked like he was trying to fold himself into origami. His shoulders shook in tiny, almost-silent trembles.
Nana's stone-hunting mission was immediately forgotten.
She marched over with all the confidence of a seven-year-old who had never met a stranger, her light-up sneakers blinking with each determined step. When she reached the bench, she bent down—way, way down—and peeked up at him from below his folded arms.
"Hi!"
The boy *froze*.
Not metaphorically froze. Actually, literally froze—his breath caught, his tears stopped mid-track, and for a second, Nana could've sworn the temperature around them dropped.
Slowly, like a turtle peeking out of its shell, the boy lifted his head. His eyes were red-rimmed and puffy, and the moment he realized someone had caught him crying, he started frantically wiping at his face with both hands, smearing tears and snot everywhere.
Nana giggled. He looked like a tiny, flustered raccoon.
"Why you rubbing your face like that? It's getting worse!" she announced cheerfully, as if this were the funniest thing she'd ever witnessed.
The boy's ears turned bright red. He wiped harder.
Nana, ever helpful, plopped down next to him on the bench and dug into her pocket. After a moment of intense rummaging—past the stones, a half-eaten lollipop (slightly fuzzy), and what might've been a beetle—she triumphantly pulled out her *favorite* stone. It was smooth, gray, and had a white stripe down the middle. She'd been saving it for something important.
This felt important.
She grabbed his hand—his fingers were *freezing*, even though it was summer—and pressed the stone into his palm.
"Here! This one's special. It has a stripe, see? That means it's magic."
The boy stared at the stone like she'd just handed him a live frog.
"...Why are you crying?" Nana asked, tilting her head like a curious puppy.
The boy said nothing. He just stared at the stone.
"Hellooooo?" Nana waved her hand in front of his face. "Earth to Crying Boy! Why. Are. You. Sad?"
Silence.
"Did you fall down?"
Silence.
"Did someone steal your snack?"
Silence.
"Did a bird poop on you?"
The boy's eye twitched. Nana took that as progress.
"Did you—"
"Nobody remembered my birthday," he mumbled, so quietly she almost missed it.
Nana gasped like he'd just told her the world was ending. "WHAT?! That's so sad!"
Her eyes immediately welled up with sympathetic tears—Nana cried at everything from sad commercials to particularly emotional rocks—and the boy looked *alarmed*.
"W-wait, don't—"
But Nana was already scrambling off the bench, tears forgotten as quickly as they'd arrived. She sprinted across the grass, light-up shoes blinking frantically, and dropped to her knees in front of a patch of dandelions. She grabbed the biggest, fluffiest one she could find and ran back, slightly out of breath.
"Here!" She thrust the dandelion at him like a sword. "Happy birthday! Make a wish and blow!"
The boy—who still hadn't introduced himself—stared at the dandelion. Then at the stone. Then at the tiny, beaming girl in front of him who looked *way* too excited about giving away weeds and rocks.
Something in his chest felt... warm.
He took the dandelion carefully, like it might break, and closed his eyes. After a long moment, he blew.
The seeds scattered into the wind, dancing away like tiny fairies.
When he opened his eyes, Nana was grinning so wide her cheeks must've hurt. "What'd you wish for?"
"...You're not supposed to tell," he whispered.
"Oh. Right. Oops." Nana giggled and swung her legs. "I'm Nana! What's your name?"
"...Zayne."
"ZAYNE!" Nana practically shouted, testing it out. "Okay, Zayne, you're my friend now. Come on!"
Before he could protest, she grabbed his hand again and *yanked*. For someone half his size, she was surprisingly strong. Or maybe he was just too surprised to resist.
And that's how Zayne met Nana.
Also how he met Jihoon, because Nana dragged him directly to the sandbox where a boy with dirt on his face was building what looked like a very lopsided castle.
"JIHOON! This is Zayne! It's his birthday and NOBODY REMEMBERED so we have to be extra nice!"
Jihoon looked up, squinting. "Cool. Wanna help me dig a moat?"
Zayne, who ten minutes ago had been crying alone on a bench, now found himself holding a plastic shovel.
"...Okay."
Nana clapped like he'd just agreed to something amazing. "YAY! We're gonna be best friends FOREVER!"
And they were.
Well, the three of them, anyway.
Every single day after that, Nana would show up at the park like clockwork, always with something new and exciting. "Zayne! Jihoon! Let's catch butterflies!" or "Zayne! Jihoon! I found a HUGE stick!" or, memorably, "Zayne! Jihoon! I think I saw a fairy but it might've been a moth!"
Zayne didn't talk much. He was quiet and shy, the kind of kid who preferred watching from the sidelines. But Nana talked enough for three people, and Jihoon was happy to go along with whatever chaos she stirred up, so it worked.
Nana taught Zayne how to climb trees. (He was terrible at it. He got stuck on the second branch and Jihoon had to get an adult.)
Nana taught Zayne how to catch butterflies. (He was also terrible at this. He moved too slowly and they always flew away.)
Nana dragged Zayne to the pond to look for frogs. (A frog jumped on his head. He screamed. Nana laughed so hard she fell in the water.)
Zayne, in return, taught Nana absolutely nothing, because he barely spoke.
But he stayed.
Every single evening, when Nana's parents came to pick her up on their bicycles, and Jihoon's mom arrived with *that stick* (the Stick of Consequences, Jihoon called it, because they always forgot to go home), Zayne would be left standing alone in the playground.
He'd watch Nana wave enthusiastically from the back of her mom's bicycle, her voice ringing out across the park: "BYE ZAYNE! SEE YOU TOMORROW! I PROMISE!"
And she always kept her promise.
Day after day, week after week, Nana showed up. She held his hand when he was too nervous to talk to other kids. She shared her snacks even though he never asked. She made him laugh, even when he didn't want to.
Slowly, Zayne stopped thinking about his parents' empty house. Stopped counting the days until they came home from their business trips.
Because Nana was there.
And for the first time in his life, he wasn't alone.
.
.
.
.
.
❄️❄️❄️
To be continued.