Unseen Presence

Lin Yue liked rooftops. Not because she was brave or daring, but because they were quiet. The hum of the city below softened here, edges blurring into a distant hum that made everything feel lighter. She hugged her cardigan closer, though the sun still peeked warmly across the tiles. Her sketchbook lay open on her lap, pencil poised, waiting for something she could not name.

She tried to draw the sunlight, the flutter of leaves in the breeze, the way a stray cat stretched lazily on a neighboring rooftop. Nothing seemed right. Every line wavered in her hand, breaking apart before it became what she imagined. She let out a quiet sigh and dropped her pencil, resting her chin on her arms.

The wind moved in gentle currents, brushing strands of hair across her eyes. It felt almost… deliberate, as though someone unseen had stirred it, just enough to touch her. Lin Yue frowned and blinked, staring out across the city. She was alone — at least, she thought she was.

Her gaze fell to the edge of the roof. The streets below were busy, but the rooftop itself was empty except for her. The schoolyard, the park, the scattered cars — all were bathed in the golden glow of the late afternoon. Lin Yue’s fingers traced the outline of her sketchbook.

And yet, somewhere deep in her chest, a soft unease lingered. She had come here for solitude, but it felt like she was not entirely alone.

A whisper brushed her mind, soft, patient, and impossible to locate. “You don’t have to do this.”

Lin Yue’s eyes widened. The words were almost a thought, almost a memory, almost the wind. She shook her head, thinking, I’m imagining things. There’s no one here.

Still, the warmth it left behind did not fade. It was a subtle reassurance, like the quiet hum of sunlight against the skin, or the feeling of a familiar song you hadn’t heard in years. Lin Yue’s heart thudded in a peculiar way — anxious, yet comforted.

Her pencil, abandoned moments ago, rested on the page. She had been staring at a blank corner when she noticed it: a small sketch, delicate and careful, of two hands reaching toward each other.

Lin Yue froze. Her breath caught. I didn’t draw that.

She blinked again, almost hoping the lines would disappear. They didn’t. She traced the pencil marks lightly with her fingertip. The paper was ordinary, her own sketchbook, yet the drawing was not hers — or at least, she didn’t remember drawing it.

Her lips parted, but no words came. The wind swirled around her, tugging softly at her hair. It carried a faint scent of jasmine from the garden below. Lin Yue felt her chest tighten in a way she could not explain, the ache of something unfinished, something gentle and urgent all at once.

She closed her eyes for a moment. Perhaps someone left this… No, that was impossible. The rooftop was locked, and the stairwell empty. And yet, the reassurance lingered, wrapping around her like a soft blanket: You are not alone. You do not have to face this by yourself.

Minutes passed. She did not move. She did not draw. She simply breathed, letting the sunlight wash over her, letting the quiet reach the corners of her mind where worry had settled. Somewhere beyond the hum of the city, someone unseen watched. Someone who could not reveal himself, someone who had waited patiently for this moment for years, though Lin Yue did not know it yet.

He had not lived long enough to meet her, but he could guide her. Protect her. Make sure she saw life in all its small, fleeting beauty before it was too late. That was enough. It had to be enough.

A stray cat leapt across the neighboring rooftop, landing softly. Lin Yue smiled faintly. The world was still ordinary, still alive. There were friends she had yet to notice, books she had yet to read, sunlight she had yet to feel. Small things. Nothing grand, nothing dramatic. But perhaps, in their quiet constancy, the world itself was saying: It is okay. You will be alright.

She opened her eyes and looked at the sketch once more. The two hands reaching toward each other felt like a promise she could not quite understand. A promise that life, even in its quietest, simplest forms, could touch her heart in ways she had forgotten to notice.

The sun shifted, a soft glow stretching across the tiles. Lin Yue gathered her sketchbook carefully, tucking it under her arm. She lingered for a moment, one last glance at the city below. And though no one was visibly there, she felt the faintest stir of reassurance, a heartbeat that was not her own, yet somehow hers to keep.

On the way down, the stairwell echoed with her footsteps. They felt lighter than usual. The strange sense of being watched did not frighten her anymore. Instead, it felt protective, gentle, like an unseen friend, or a guardian she had never met.

Back in her classroom later, Lin Yue noticed the small details she had overlooked before: a pencil left just where she needed it, a notebook open with a page she was sure she had not prepared, faint traces of encouragement in doodles she did not remember making. Each small thing felt deliberate, careful, and full of quiet attention.

She smiled to herself. The world had a way of moving quietly around her, unseen yet deliberate. She could not see the one guiding her, but she felt it in the little, perfect moments — the nudges, the sketches, the warmth that seemed to appear when she most needed it.

Somewhere, in the quiet of the city, someone smiled softly. He remained unseen, patient, waiting, watching over her. His own life had been brief, but her life — her small, fragile, beautiful life — could stretch across years, and he would make sure she had the chance to see it all.

Lin Yue didn’t understand it yet, and perhaps she never would. But as she flipped her sketchbook closed and walked into the golden light of the afternoon, a quiet thought settled in her mind:

The world is larger than I thought.
And maybe… maybe it is kind, in its own way.

And somewhere, waiting just beyond the edges of perception, he thought the same thing.