I don’t remember when I first started sitting in that alley.

Maybe it was the day the world decided I didn’t belong in it.

Or maybe it was the day I decided the world didn’t belong in me.

The walls were damp and narrow, old bricks breathing the scent of rain and rust. Broken glass scattered like forgotten stars, reflecting bits of moonlight that slipped through the cracks of the rooftops. It wasn’t much of a place to rest, but it was the only place that didn’t stare back. Here, no one whispered. No one laughed. No one remembered that I was the boy who still had no power.

Twelve years old — that was how long I had been alive, and how long I had been empty.

In our world, everyone was born with a spark. A flame. A light that marked who they were meant to be.

Some could summon water with a gesture. Some could talk to birds. Some could run like lightning.

And then there was me — the only one who had nothing.

People said I was cursed. That I must have done something wrong before I was even born. Children were told not to play with me, not to touch me, as if I carried an invisible sickness. Even the teachers hesitated before calling my name. They looked at me like a blank page that shouldn’t have been printed.

So, I started hiding.

The alley behind the old bakery became my classroom, my playground, and my world. The scent of stale bread lingered in the air, and sometimes, when the wind was kind, it carried warmth from the ovens. It made me feel like the world hadn’t completely forgotten me yet.

I liked the dark.

Not because I was brave, but because it was honest.

The dark didn’t pretend to be kind. It didn’t promise safety or fairness. It just was — silent, steady, and endless. People feared it because they couldn’t control it, but maybe that’s why I felt at home there. Because I, too, was something no one could understand.

That night, I sat with my knees pulled to my chest, my uniform still crumpled from another day of being shoved into corners. My bag lay beside me, the books inside torn and scribbled over.

It was quiet. Only the soft hum of distant chatter, a dog barking, the faint flicker of a streetlight struggling to stay alive.

I closed my eyes.

If I listened hard enough, I could almost hear the stars breathing.

They sounded lonely, too.

Then, something moved.

A sound — soft and quick — like silk brushing over stone. My eyes snapped open, my breath caught halfway between fear and curiosity. Shadows danced near the wall, and my heart began to race.

“Who’s there?” I whispered, though my voice barely reached the air.

No answer.

Only a small figure creeping closer. Then I saw it — two golden eyes gleaming in the dark, reflecting a light that wasn’t there.

A cat.

A black cat, its fur glimmering like spilled ink under moonlight.

It tilted its head, studying me. I didn’t move. Maybe it thought I was a statue. Maybe it could tell I was as lonely as it was.

When it stepped closer, I could hear the soft sound of its paws on the ground, the whisper of its tail sweeping behind.

“Hey…”

My voice cracked. It had been a while since I’d spoken to anything that listened.

The cat blinked, unimpressed.

I reached out my hand slowly, hoping it wouldn’t run away.

It didn’t — at first. But as soon as my fingertips brushed the air near its fur, it hissed and leapt back, scratching out in panic. Its claw caught my cheek, leaving a stinging line that warmed with blood. I flinched but didn’t shout.

“It’s okay,” I murmured, even though my hand trembled. “I won’t hurt you.”

The cat hesitated. Its ears twitched, and for a long moment, we just looked at each other — two creatures too afraid of the world, trying to decide if we could trust one another. Then, slowly, it came back. Its tail flicked nervously, but it let me reach out again.

This time, my hand met soft fur.

It was warm — not just from the touch, but from something deeper.

A heartbeat. A small, living warmth that didn’t run away.

“You’re braver than me,” I whispered.

The cat purred softly, pressing against my palm. I smiled. For a moment, it felt like the world had light again — not from the stars, but from this tiny creature that decided I was worth staying with.

Then a voice called out.

“Chiro? Chiro, where are you?”

The cat’s ears perked.

Footsteps approached — light, hurried, unsure. I froze. My chest tightened. The sound of people always did that to me. I didn’t trust footsteps; they had brought too much pain.

A girl appeared at the mouth of the alley.

She looked about my age, maybe a little older. Her hair was tied loosely behind her, and she wore a soft blue coat that fluttered like a morning sky. When her eyes met mine, she froze too — maybe because I was sitting in the dark like some strange ghost clutching her cat.

“Oh!” she gasped, holding her hands close to her chest. “I—I didn’t see you there. Sorry! I was just looking for my cat.”

Her voice was gentle, yet trembling. She was nervous — not scared, just uncertain.

The cat, Chiro, meowed softly and ran toward her, brushing against her legs. She smiled in relief, kneeling to pick it up. Then her gaze drifted back to me.

“Are you… okay?” she asked.

The words felt strange, like a language I hadn’t heard in years.

People didn’t ask me that. They didn’t ask anything that involved caring.

I wanted to say yes.

But the sound of her voice made me remember every mocking laugh, every whisper that called me useless, cursed, worthless. My chest tightened again. I stepped back, shaking my head.

“I’m fine,” I lied, though I could feel my hands trembling.

She took a small step forward, cautious, as if trying not to scare away a wounded bird. “You’re bleeding,” she said softly, pointing to my cheek. “Let me help.”

“Don’t!”

The word burst out before I could stop it. I stumbled back, nearly tripping over my bag. My heart pounded. She reached out instinctively, trying to steady me — but I flinched and pushed her hand away. She lost her balance and fell onto the wet stones.

For a moment, I froze. My throat closed up. I didn’t mean to. I wanted to say that, but the words wouldn’t come out.

She sat up slowly, brushing the dirt off her skirt. Then, to my surprise, she smiled — small, unsure, but real.

“It’s okay,” she said softly. “I’m not angry.”

I wanted to run.

But I couldn’t. There was something in her eyes that kept me there — not pity, not fear. Something warmer. Something I hadn’t seen in years.

She stood again and raised her hand, her fingers trembling slightly. I backed away, shaking. My chest ached, my breath short. I didn’t know why she kept trying.

“Don’t touch me,” I whispered. “Please.”

She didn’t listen. Or maybe she did — maybe she heard something in my voice that wasn’t the words. Her hand hovered for a moment, then lightly brushed my cheek.

Warmth.

It wasn’t like sunlight or fire or anything I’d ever known.

It was softer. Deeper. Like the warmth of a memory I’d never had. Like the feeling of being seen for the first time.

I felt the sting on my cheek fade. The air around us shimmered faintly — just for an instant. Her eyes widened, and I could see something glowing faintly beneath her hand, a golden light curling like tiny feathers. Then, as quickly as it came, it vanished.

I blinked, dazed.

When she pulled her hand away, the cut was gone.

She looked at me, startled. “It… healed.”

I couldn’t speak. I didn’t even know if it was her doing or something else. I just knew that for the first time, someone had touched me — and I wasn’t afraid of the dark anymore.

She smiled again, this time softly. “See? Nothing to be scared of.”

Then a voice called her name from afar — older, perhaps her parent or a friend. She looked back toward the street, then turned to me again.

“I have to go,” she said. “But… you’ll be okay, right?”

I nodded, though I wasn’t sure I believed it.

She hesitated, then gently placed the cat beside me. “Chiro likes you. Maybe we’ll see you again.”

And with that, she turned and ran toward the light.

The alley was quiet again, but it didn’t feel empty.

I sat there, my fingers brushing the place where her hand had been. The warmth lingered like sunlight that refused to fade.

The cat purred beside me, curling near my bag.

I smiled faintly. “You’re not scared of me either, huh?”

The sky was beginning to dim, the faint hues of sunset spilling between the rooftops. The air smelled like rain again. I picked up my bag, slinging it over my shoulder. My cheek no longer hurt.

When I stepped out of the alley, the world didn’t seem as cruel.

The people still walked by without looking. The laughter from the streets still sounded far away. But somewhere inside me — beneath the fear, beneath the emptiness — something small began to stir.

It wasn’t power.

Not yet.

But maybe it was something even rarer.

Hope.

That night, as I lay in my small bed, the image of her face drifted in my mind — her trembling smile, her fearless eyes, her hand glowing like a tiny sun.

And for the first time in years, I didn’t dream of running away.

I dreamed of light.

---------------------

Rain has a sound that can drown the whole world.

A rhythm that hides footsteps, whispers, and sometimes, even pain.

That evening, it fell endlessly — soft and steady, as if the sky itself was tired of holding back its tears. I sat in the back seat of the car, my schoolbag resting on my lap, watching the drops race each other down the window. Each drop left a silver trail, only to be swallowed by the next. Maybe that’s what life was like — one drop disappearing into another, no one really knowing where it began or ended.

The driver hummed quietly, the wipers sweeping left and right, keeping time with the rain. I wasn’t listening to the music or the road. I was listening to the silence that came after the noise — the kind of silence only rain could make.

My school uniform was damp, even though I’d run straight to the car after class. My shoes squelched slightly when I shifted my feet. It had been another normal day — normal in the sense that everyone else seemed brighter than me. Their powers flickered in colors I didn’t understand. Sparks of light, threads of wind, the faint shimmer of control. And me? Just the boy with nothing.

The teacher had smiled politely, the same way people smile at a wilted flower. “Keep trying,” she said.

As if effort could fill an empty cup.

I leaned my forehead against the glass, tracing the shape of a raindrop with my finger. The world outside blurred into silver and gray. The streets were slick, the lamps glowing like fireflies trapped in jars.

And then, through the foggy window, I saw something move.

A shape — small, dark — running along the sidewalk. It was a cat.

Not just any cat. The cat.

The same black cat with golden eyes.

My chest tightened. I leaned forward, pressing closer to the glass. The cat darted across puddles, tail flicking anxiously, as if it was searching for something. Or someone.

“Stop the car,” I said quietly.

The driver hesitated. “Young master, we’re almost—”

“Please. Just for a minute.”

Something in my voice must have convinced him, because the car slowed, and I stepped out into the rain before he could even ask why.

The rain hit me immediately — cold, sharp, alive. The umbrella in my bag was the only thing between me and the storm. I opened it quickly, the sound of fabric blooming above me.

The cat had stopped near the park — the small one with a single tree in the middle, the one where children used to play before the swings rusted away. I followed its cry, my shoes splashing through shallow puddles.

“Chiro,” I whispered. The name came out naturally, even though I’d only heard it once.

The cat turned, gave a short meow, then ran ahead again. It stopped by the bench under the tree, tail curling low. And there — through the curtain of rain — I saw her.

The girl from that night.

She was sitting on the bench, her coat soaked through, her hair clinging to her face. Even through the shadows, I could see the streaks of tears mixing with rain. Her hands were clasped tightly on her knees, and her shoulders shook every so often.

For a moment, I didn’t know what to do. I stood there, umbrella in hand, my heart pounding too fast for words. Then I took a slow step forward, the gravel crunching softly beneath my shoes.

She looked up. Her eyes widened, surprised — and then softened in recognition.

“You…” she whispered.

The rain muffled her voice, but I heard it. Somehow, I always heard her.

I walked closer until I was standing in front of her. The umbrella covered both of us now, keeping the rain away from her face. I could see the bruises on her wrists, faint and bluish, and a small cut near her lip.

“What happened?” I asked. My voice came out smaller than I meant it to.

She looked away. “It’s nothing.”

But it wasn’t nothing.

The world never leaves marks for nothing.

Her cat jumped onto her lap, curling into her arms, purring softly. She held it tightly, like it was the only thing keeping her from falling apart.

I wanted to say something — anything — but all the words that came to mind felt too heavy or too light. So I just stood there, holding the umbrella above her, letting my silence speak for me.

The rain slowed a little, turning into a fine mist that hung in the air like memory.

After a while, I knelt down beside her.

“You’re hurt,” I said.

She smiled faintly, though it didn’t reach her eyes. “I’ll be fine.”

“You could heal yourself,” I said without thinking. “You healed me that night.”

Her smile faded.

“I can’t,” she whispered.

I blinked. “What do you mean?”

Her eyes lifted to meet mine, and for a moment, they looked like pieces of the sky trapped in water.

“I can use my power for others,” she said slowly, “but not for myself.”

The words lingered between us, heavy and quiet.

There was something cruelly poetic about it — a gift that worked for everyone except the one who bore it.

I looked at her bruised hands again, at the way she tried to hide them behind the cat’s fur. My chest tightened with something I couldn’t name.

I wanted to tell her that it wasn’t fair. That someone who could make others feel warmth shouldn’t have to sit alone in the cold.

But I didn’t. I wasn’t good with words — I never was.

Instead, I did the only thing I could.

I handed her the umbrella.

“Here,” I said. “You need it more.”

She blinked, surprised. “But what about you?”

“I like the rain,” I lied. “It hides things. Makes the world quieter.”

She stared at me for a moment, then laughed softly — the kind of laugh that sounds like it forgot how to be happy but is trying to remember.

“Thank you,” she said.

I shook my head. “No. Thank you… for that night.”

Her eyes widened slightly, and for the first time, I saw a real smile bloom on her face — small, gentle, and bright, even under the gray sky.

“You remembered.”

“How could I forget?” I said.

She tucked a strand of wet hair behind her ear. “You never told me your name.”

“Cha Won,” I replied quietly. “My name is Cha Won.”

She repeated it softly, as if tasting it. “Cha Won…”

Then she smiled again, the umbrella still held loosely in her hand. “My name is Min—”

A voice cut through the rain.

“Min-ah! Where are you?”

She froze. The voice was older — worried, protective. She looked toward the park’s entrance, then back at me.

“I have to go,” she said quickly, standing up.

The cat leapt from her arms, landing softly on the wet grass. I wanted to ask her to wait, to at least finish her name, but the words caught in my throat.

She turned once more, rain glimmering on her lashes. “Thank you, Cha Won.”

Then she ran — toward the light, toward the voice calling her back. The umbrella tilted, almost closing as she disappeared behind the curtain of rain.

I stood there for a long time, the sound of the downpour echoing in the empty park.

When I finally looked down, the cat was gone too. Only a faint warmth lingered where she had sat, fading slowly into the chill of the evening.

I tilted my head up. The clouds were breaking apart, letting a faint shimmer of orange through. The first evening star had appeared — small, stubborn, beautiful.

The rain began to ease, the drops falling slower now. I closed my eyes, letting them hit my face.

Each one was cold, but underneath, I could still feel a memory of her touch — that light, that warmth, that spark of something I didn’t understand yet.

Maybe power wasn’t about what you could summon or control.

Maybe it was about what you could feel.

I didn’t know if I would see her again.

But I knew one thing for certain — from that day on, I stopped fearing the dark, and I started listening for the sound of rain. Because sometimes, it carried her name.