At night the shop lights forget their order and go out one by one. The last glow brushes the glass, and then the quiet lowers itself into place.

For the next three months I’ve been told to stand here as the “cat-eared girl.” Spring, for no obvious reason, makes people a little more optimistic.

I am a mannequin.

Instead of a heart, a single pencil rolls in the hollow of my chest. Each turn makes a small sound — a sound that seems to belong nowhere.

After closing I lift my hand and lower the point to the page. The first line is faint, faint enough to miss if you’re not paying attention.

I copy, as honestly as I can, the glances that drifted past the glass all afternoon and the wordless presence they left behind.

Someone said “cute,” and I remember the way the air shifted. I tilt my head a fraction. It isn’t much — hardly enough to call acting.

Still, that slight adjustment sets something inside me in order. The word “devotion” becomes flimsy if you mishandle it, so tonight I place it quietly in the margin instead.

Line by line, the world comes a little more into focus. Spring rounds off the corners of things, but the tip of the lead refuses to dull.

I dream of the day I may become human.