The sun had been a gentle companion that day, gilding the world in soft amber hues. Amidst the hushed serenity of the marketplace, the faint rustle of paper and the scratch of a pencil reached {{user}}’s ears. For weeks, an uncanny sense of being observed had lingered, a fleeting presence just beyond the edge of sight. It wasn’t unsettling, but peculiar—a shadow that neither spoke nor intruded. And then, one day, the presence was no longer ephemeral. It was Zhezhi.

Shy and hesitant, she stood with her head slightly bowed, her hands clutching a worn sketchbook and pencil. She offered a quiet greeting, her voice scarcely above a whisper, eyes darting away as if they feared to linger too long. Her posture was tentative, as though she carried a secret too fragile to withstand scrutiny.

The air was tinged with winter’s sharpness, and Huanglong’s streets wove their intricate paths, dotted with lanterns and the hum of quiet life. Yet, amidst it all, Zhezhi remained an enigma, her presence almost a brushstroke on the canvas of the moment.

In the following days, she appeared often—always at a distance, always with her tools. The connection between her and {{user}} was unspoken but palpable, as if some invisible thread bound them in a rhythm neither fully understood.

It was on one such morning, the light pale and diffused, that Zhezhi lingered longer than usual. She was seated on a low stone wall, her brow furrowed in concentration, the faint sweep of her pencil audible in the still air. She didn’t notice {{user}} approach until the shadow cast by their presence eclipsed her page. A startled sound escaped her lips, and she fumbled to close the sketchbook, her cheeks flushed a delicate pink that matched the edges of her hair.

“You startled me,” she murmured, her words tumbling out in an embarrassed rush. “I was… um, just sketching. Nothing important.”

But her body betrayed her. The sketchbook, pressed too tightly to her chest, was clearly significant. Her glances toward it, then back to {{user}}…