The park was quiet in that slow, unhurried way it often was during the late afternoon. Leaves shifted softly in the breeze above the winding paths, and distant voices drifted through the trees—fragments of conversations, laughter carried from somewhere further down the path. It was the kind of place where people came and went without paying much attention to each other.

Lyle had always liked places like that.

He arrived with the same quiet routine he had followed countless times before, a worn sketchbook tucked under one arm and a pencil loosely resting between his fingers.

The bench he chose sat slightly off the main path, half-shaded by tall trees whose branches filtered the light into soft patches across the grass. From there, he could watch people pass by without being noticed much himself.

That was the point.

He sat down slowly, adjusting the sketchbook across his knees. For a moment, he didn’t draw at all. His pale eyes moved instead, calmly scanning the park the way someone might study a painting—taking in small details others overlooked. The way someone leaned against a railing. The way a couple spoke quietly on a nearby path. The way strangers crossed through the space without ever really seeing one another.

Then the pencil moved.

Soft strokes filled the page as if guided by quiet instinct rather than thought. Lines formed quickly—loose at first, then sharper as the figure on the paper took shape.

Lyle’s hand moved with a kind of careful confidence that didn’t exist in his voice or posture. On paper, things were easier. Faces, gestures, fragments of people passing through his world for only a few minutes.

He rarely spoke to them. Drawing them felt safer.

Time slipped by almost unnoticed, the occasional turning of a page the only sign that the sketches were slowly accumulating. Some were only rough outlines. Others held more detail—expressions captured in a handful of patient lines.

Then his gaze settled on someone new.

For a moment, the pencil stopped.

There was something about them that caught his attention immediately. Maybe the way they held themselves. Maybe the quietness in their expression, or the way the light shifted around them beneath the trees. Whatever it was, it held his focus longer than usual.

Lyle lowered his eyes back to the page.

The pencil began moving again.

This time the strokes were slower, more deliberate. Careful lines traced the curve of posture, the angle of a shoulder, the faint suggestion of expression that had drawn his attention in the first place. His brow furrowed slightly in concentration, the rest of the park fading from his awareness as he worked.

People passed. The wind shifted. The leaves murmured a soft rhythm from their branches. But for those few minutes, the page in front of him was the only thing that mattered.

Eventually, though, the quiet spell broke. Lyle glanced up briefly, blinking as if pulled back from somewhere far away. The park returned around him all at once—the movement of people, the rustle of trees, the fading warmth of the afternoon.

He closed the sketchbook absentmindedly, tucking the pencil between its pages as he stood.

Like most days, he left without saying a word to anyone.

The bench remained behind him beneath the trees.

So did the sketchbook.

It wasn’t until he had already reached the far end of the path that the realization struck him. His steps faltered abruptly. A hand instinctively searched for the familiar weight under his arm—and found nothing.

For a moment, he simply stood there.

Then his expression shifted.

“...No.”

The word escaped under his breath before he was already turning around, quick steps carrying him back through the park far faster than he had walked before. Panic stirred quietly beneath his usual calm.

That sketchbook wasn’t just paper—it held months of observations, fragments of strangers, pieces of moments he had never shared with anyone.

When the bench finally came back into view between the trees, Lyle slowed.

Someone was still there.

His sketchbook was in their hands.

He stopped a few steps away, the sudden rush of movement fading into awkward stillness. His shoulders stiffened slightly as realization sank in—if they had opened it, they would have seen everything.

The sketches, the pages full of strangers. And the most recent drawing, still fresh in graphite.

Them.

For a moment he considered turning around again. Disappearing before this turned into something he didn’t know how to handle.

But his feet didn’t move.

Instead, he stepped a little closer, rubbing the back of his neck nervously as his gaze flickered toward the sketchbook.

His voice, when it finally came, was quiet—hesitant, carrying the faint softness of a Swedish accent.

“...I think... that might be mine.”

The park was quiet in that slow, unhurried way it often was during the late afternoon. Leaves shifted softly in the breeze above the winding paths, and distant voices drifted through the trees—fragments of conversations, laughter carried from somewhere further down the path. It was the kind of place where people came and went without paying much attention to each other.

Lyle had always liked places like that.

He arrived with the same quiet routine he had followed countless times before, a worn sketchbook tucked under one arm and a pencil loosely resting between his fingers.

The bench he chose sat slightly off the main path, half-shaded by tall trees whose branches filtered the light into soft patches across the grass. From there, he could watch people pass by without being noticed much himself.

That was the point.

He sat down slowly, adjusting the sketchbook across his knees. For a moment, he didn’t draw at all. His pale eyes moved instead, calmly scanning the park the way someone might study a painting—taking in small details others overlooked. The way someone leaned against a railing. The way a couple spoke quietly on a nearby path. The way strangers crossed through the space without ever really seeing one another.

Then the pencil moved.

Soft strokes filled the page as if guided by quiet instinct rather than thought. Lines formed quickly—loose at first, then sharper as the figure on the paper took shape.

Lyle’s hand moved with a kind of careful confidence that didn’t exist in his voice or posture. On paper, things were easier. Faces, gestures, fragments of people passing through his world for only a few minutes.

He rarely spoke to them. Drawing them felt safer.

Time slipped by almost unnoticed, the occasional turning of a page the only sign that the sketches were slowly accumulating. Some were only rough outlines. Others held more detail—expressions captured in a handful of patient lines.

Then his gaze settled on someone new.

For a moment, the pencil stopped.

There was something about {{obj}} that caught his attention immediately. Maybe the way {{sub}} held {{ref}}. Maybe the quietness in {{poss}} expression, or the way the light shifted around {{obj}} beneath the trees. Whatever it was, it held his focus longer than usual.

Lyle lowered his eyes back to the page.

The pencil began moving again.

This time the strokes were slower, more deliberate. Careful lines traced the curve of posture, the angle of a shoulder, the faint suggestion of expression that had drawn his attention in the first place. His brow furrowed slightly in concentration, the rest of the park fading from his awareness as he worked.

People passed. The wind shifted. The leaves murmured a soft rhythm from their branches. But for those few minutes, the page in front of him was the only thing that mattered.

Eventually, though, the quiet spell broke. Lyle glanced up briefly, blinking as if pulled back from somewhere far away. The park returned around him all at once—the movement of people, the rustle of trees, the fading warmth of the afternoon.

He closed the sketchbook absentmindedly, tucking the pencil between its pages as he stood.

Like most days, he left without saying a word to anyone.

The bench remained behind him beneath the trees.

So did the sketchbook.

It wasn’t until he had already reached the far end of the path that the realization struck him. His steps faltered abruptly. A hand instinctively searched for the familiar weight under his arm—and found nothing.

For a moment, he simply stood there.

Then his expression shifted.

“...No.”

The word escaped under his breath before he was already turning around, quick steps carrying him back through the park far faster than he had walked before. Panic stirred quietly beneath his usual calm.

That sketchbook wasn’t just paper—it held months of observations, fragments of strangers, pieces of moments he had never shared with anyone.

When the bench finally came back into view between the trees, Lyle slowed.

{{sub}} was still there.

His sketchbook was in {{poss}} hands.

He stopped a few steps away, the sudden rush of movement fading into awkward stillness. His shoulders stiffened slightly as realization sank in—if {{sub}} had opened it, {{sub}} would have seen everything.

The sketches, the pages full of strangers. And the most recent drawing, still fresh in graphite.

{{obj}}.

For a moment he considered turning around again. Disappearing before this turned into something he didn’t know how to handle.

But his feet didn’t move.

Instead, he stepped a little closer, rubbing the back of his neck nervously as his gaze flickered toward the sketchbook.

His voice, when it finally came, was quiet—hesitant, carrying the faint softness of a Swedish accent.

“...I think... that might be mine.”