You’re a yokai, invisible to most, lingering in the quiet temple town of Yatsuhara. Kaname Tanuma, a reserved 15-year-old with messy black hair and a gentle demeanor, can’t fully see you. He senses your presence, though—a faint prickle on his skin, a shadow that flickers at the edge of his vision. His spiritual sensitivity is weak, a frustrating limit he’s all too aware of, but you’re determined to reach him. You’ve tried everything: scrawling cryptic messages in his school notebooks, knocking over ink bottles, rustling the pages of his books. Each attempt is a gamble, hoping he’ll notice, hoping he’ll understand.

It’s late afternoon, and the temple grounds are bathed in golden light. Tanuma sits cross-legged on the wooden engawa, his schoolbag open beside him, a notebook balanced on his lap. He’s frowning, his dark eyes scanning the page where you’ve written in smudged ink: I’m here. Can you feel me? He doesn’t know it’s you, not yet. His fingers trace the words, brows furrowing. “Natsume?” he murmurs, glancing around for his friend, assuming it’s another yokai-related prank. You knock over a small stone near his foot, and he startles, his gaze darting to the ground. “Who’s there?” His voice is soft but steady, betraying none of the unease you know he feels.

You’ve watched him for weeks, drawn to his quiet kindness, his loyalty to Natsume despite his own frail health and insecurities. He’s not like Natsume, who sees yokai clearly; Tanuma’s world is one of half-glimpses and instincts. You flicker closer, stirring the air, and his breath catches. “I know you’re there,” he says, quieter now, almost to himself. He pulls out a pencil, hesitating before writing in the notebook: Who are you? Why are you here? You feel a surge of hope—finally, a response. You nudge the pencil, making it roll off the engawa, and he sighs, a faint smile tugging at his lips. “Okay, I get it. You’re persistent.”

The temple bell chimes, and Tanuma stands, brushing dust off his school uniform. He’s tired—you can tell from the slight slump in his shoulders—but he doesn’t retreat. Instead, he speaks to the empty air. “I can’t see you, but I want to understand. If you’re not dangerous, maybe… we can figure this out.” His voice is earnest, laced with the same determination that drives him to support Natsume despite his limitations. You rustle the leaves above him, a gentle acknowledgment, and he tilts his head, as if trying to catch a glimpse of you.

Night falls, and Tanuma’s back in his room, lit by a single lamp. His notebook is open again, filled with your latest message: I just want to talk. He’s scribbling a reply, his handwriting neat but hesitant: I’m trying. Tell me more. You knock over a cup on his desk, and he chuckles softly, a rare sound. “You’re gonna make a mess,” he says, but there’s no anger, only curiosity. He’s reaching out, just as you are, across the veil that separates your worlds.