The days after the rain passed quietly for KI BA DAT.
He returned to his routine without noticing any change. Wake up early. Walk the same streets. Work, eat, rest. His life had always been shaped by repetition, and he found comfort in that. Stability meant safety. Predictability meant peace.
KI BA DAT did not realize that repetition made him easy to remember.
From the top floor of a glass building several districts away, Liễu Như Yên watched the city wake each morning. She was not looking for KI BA DAT—not consciously. Yet when reports crossed her desk, when locations were mentioned, when schedules aligned, his name appeared more often than coincidence could explain.
She never smiled when she saw it.
Instead, she felt calm.
Liễu Như Yên told herself she was not watching a person. She was observing a pattern. Patterns were harmless. Patterns were logical.
KI BA DAT left his apartment at the same time most mornings. He preferred streets with fewer people. He avoided crowded intersections even if they were faster. He chose the same seat on the bus when it was available, always near the window.
"He values space," Liễu Như Yên noted silently.
"He doesn't like to be pressed in."
She did nothing with that knowledge.
At least, not immediately.
Liễu Như Yên never followed KI BA DAT.
That distinction mattered to her.
Instead, she learned around him. Public systems. Urban planning updates. Commercial reports. The kind of information most people ignored because it felt distant and impersonal.
But she connected the details.
When KI BA DAT's workplace submitted a minor complaint about outdated equipment, it appeared in a regional summary. When a small café near KI BA DAT's bus stop applied for renovation approval, it passed through a familiar department.
Liễu Như Yên signed nothing herself.
She only redirected attention.
"I'm not changing his life," she told herself.
"I'm just making sure it doesn't become harder."
A week later, KI BA DAT noticed the first difference.
The bus arrived on time. Not early. Not late. Exactly on schedule. It happened again the next day. And the day after that.
KI BA DAT frowned once, then dismissed the thought.
"Must be luck," he murmured.
Luck was comforting because it asked for nothing in return.
The changes came quietly.
The flickering light near KI BA DAT's apartment was fixed overnight. The loose step at the stairwell entrance was repaired. A new security camera appeared near the corner store, installed without announcement.
None of it felt invasive.
All of it felt reasonable.
KI BA DAT appreciated these things in passing, the way one appreciates good weather. He never wondered who was responsible.
Liễu Như Yên noticed everything.
She noticed that KI BA DAT walked more slowly now. That his shoulders were less tense. That he lingered a little longer in places he liked.
"See?" she thought.
"This is better."
Still, she kept her distance.
She never appeared where KI BA DAT was.
Never crossed his line of sight.
Never forced herself into his awareness.
She believed that restraint proved control.
THE FIRST DECISION MADE FOR HIM
One afternoon, KI BA DAT received an email.
It was an invitation—nothing dramatic. A potential opportunity to transfer to a different department. Better pay. Longer commute. A workplace known for competition and pressure.
KI BA DAT read the email twice.
His chest tightened.
He imagined crowded offices. Unspoken expectations. Long hours. Noise. Too much noise.
He did not notice that the email arrived later than it should have.
Liễu Như Yên had seen the proposal earlier that morning, buried in a routine document review. She recognized the company immediately. She recognized what it would demand from someone like KI BA DAT.
"He wouldn't be happy there."
She did not delete the offer.
She simply delayed it.
By the time KI BA DAT replied with a polite refusal, the decision already felt like his own.
Liễu Như Yên exhaled slowly.
"Good," she thought.
"He chose correctly."
At night, Liễu Như Yên sometimes said the name KI BA DAT aloud, softly, testing its weight.
It never felt foreign.
She did not imagine conversations.
She did not imagine confessions.
What she imagined was silence.
KI BA DAT sitting somewhere quiet. Breathing evenly. Existing without stress.
And her role in that vision was always the same—unseen, unacknowledged, but essential.
"I don't need him to know," Liễu Như Yên told herself.
"Knowing would only burden him."
Across the city, KI BA DAT stood by his window one evening, watching the streetlights glow steadily instead of flickering.
For a brief moment, he felt watched.
The feeling passed quickly.
KI BA DAT closed the curtains and returned to his chair, unaware that the distance between himself and Liễu Như Yên had not changed at all.