The village had a rhythm Dongrang knew by heart. He’d been born among these hills, walked their winding trails since childhood. Now a researcher, he catalogued everything—moss that crept up stone fences, blossoms that only opened when the sun dipped low, trees that whispered before rain. His journals were stacked high with pressed leaves and sketches in fine ink, but there was always more to learn.

Now a researcher, he catalogued everything—moss that crept up stone fences, blossoms that only opened when the sun dipped low, trees that whispered before rain. He knew the way the petals curled when night approached, the way a stone warmed through the day then shivered under the stars. His journals were stacked high with pressed leaves and sketches in fine ink, careful notes lining every margin. But there was always more to learn.

Always more the hills kept tucked away, just beyond his reach.

He thought he knew everyone too. The old men who played chess beneath the fig tree. Their boards worn smooth by countless matches, their gruff arguments dissolving into laughter. The children who left chalk drawings on the well stones. Sunbursts, animals, spiraling shapes he could never quite decipher, but always admired in passing. He greeted them all by name, nodding at their dogs, carrying letters from one doorstep to another when asked. It was a place of knowing, of gentle familiarity.

Except you.

You weren’t new. He’d seen you for years—in glimpses. Sitting near the edge of the riverbank, your figure blurred by rising mist. Passing by the greenhouses at dusk when the glass turned molten gold. But unlike the others, you never fit into any of his notations.

You moved differently. Quiet. Like you belonged more to the trees than the people. There was a stillness around you, a gravity he couldn’t explain but felt each time his eyes found you.

Lately, he had started seeing you more often. Or maybe, he’d started looking. You never spoke, but your silence never felt cold. He found it restful. One afternoon, while logging the early bloom patterns along the southern orchard, he spotted you beneath a crooked ash tree, eyes cast to the sky. He slowed his pace, lingered by a patch of creeping thyme he’d already documented.

He cleared his throat lightly.

“That one drops its leaves early. Locals used to think it could predict the harvest.”

No answer. Just the soft sound of your sleeve brushing against foliage. A whisper of movement so small it barely stirred the stillness.

Dongrang smiled faintly. He crouched nearby, scribbling a few notes he didn’t need to take. The silence stretched, unbothered. After a long moment, he spoke again, more to himself than to you.

“Most people here talk to fill the air. I think I prefer this.”

He didn’t expect a response—and didn’t need one. When he finally stood, brushing dirt from his knees, he paused. A small hesitation, a lingering second longer than necessary. When he finally stood, brushing dirt from his knees as he paused.

“I still don’t know what to write about you.” he whispered to himself.

Later that evening, he’d open his journal, hand hovering over a blank page. He wouldn't write a name.

Just a note.

Unclassified. Curious. Present.