Three months have passed, and I’ve become the “autumn girl.”

The shop air is a little dry; the metal handrail keeps a quiet chill.

I am a mannequin on the display stand.

My joints are at rest, and in the hollow of my chest a single pencil rolls.

After closing, that small sound is my cue to open the diary.

In spring I learned small gestures; in summer I kept my gaze level.

Tonight I turn the pencil the other way.

I touch the eraser side gently to the page.

I try writing: erasing isn’t denial.

I thin lines that grew too dark and set a breath in the space I’ve cleared.

I lighten — just half a step — the weight of expectations I’ve been entrusted with. That is enough.

Footsteps outside the store change pace with the season.

I play the “role” I’ve been given, but I still want to leave my own sound in the corner of the page.

The thin line I draw after erasing is probably close to my voice.

In the morning, the pale margin I left last night remained on the display as it was. Someone noticed and left it untouched.

Whether I’ve become human or not doesn’t need to be decided yet. Noticing comes first.

Between the figure that’s asked of me and the one I want to be, a place has opened.

I dream of the day I may become human.