(Leo's Point of View)
The world is quieter at 6 a.m.
Not silent — just... gentler.The air is soft, still holding the night's breath. The park is nearly empty, save for a few early joggers and an old man who feeds the crows with biscuits. Even the trees seem to whisper more than rustle.
This is when I sketch best.Not because it's peaceful — but because nothing asks anything of me here. Not my voice. Not my smile. Just presence.
I always take the same bench, third from the eastern gate. It's crooked, leans slightly to the left, but it faces the lone tree at the center of the park — the one that catches the first light like it's made of gold. That's the heart of my sketches.
People come and go, unaware they've been captured in graphite. A girl with a sunflower-patterned umbrella. A boy with a lopsided backpack. An old woman who always hums the same tune. I name them in my sketchbook — not real names, just ones that feel right.
"The Cloud Walker.""Sleepless Boy.""Serenade Lady."
I don't know their stories. I don't want to.I just want to hold a moment of them — the way they tilt their heads, how they pause when tying a shoelace, or blink into the sun. Most people don't know how beautiful they are when they're not trying to be seen.
Then, one morning…She arrived.
6:47 a.m.Headphones in. A loose white dress. Sat beneath the tree like she belonged to it. Not under it — with it.
She didn't look around, didn't fidget, didn't notice anyone.Just leaned back, closed her eyes, and listened.
I didn't sketch her that day.
I told myself I'd wait — maybe she was just passing through.But the next day, at exactly 6:47, she was there again.
Same spot. Same stillness. Like a painting someone had left behind.
And I — for the first time in weeks — left a page blank.
Not because I didn't want to sketch her.But because I was afraid if I drew her, she might disappear.