The autumn wind rattles my bedroom window as I trace the condensation on the glass with one finger, drawing a smiley face that drips like tears. I tell myself to smile more, as the old Chinese saying goes: a child who loves to smile will have good luck. My phone sits charging beside my untouched homework. Mom messaged an hour ago: they’d be extending their business trip in Shanghai. Again.

I have long been accustomed to such a life, counting the grey roof tiles from my bedroom window every day: 287 today, of course — the same as yesterday.

Our quadrangle courtyard feels too big with just me and two housekeepers: Mrs. Zhang is in charge of my parents’ rooms, and Mrs. Li is responsible for my daily life. In fact, currently, Mrs. Li is cooking Peking duck for me—I can smell it when she yells loudly, her voice sharp: “Dinner’s ready! Hannah!”

The worst part about being alone is at dinner. Downstairs, I position my iPad on the empty table so I can watch videos, pretending someone’s eating with me. When my chopsticks click against the porcelain bowl, the echo bounces off mahogany cabinets like mocking laughter.

Later that day, the yard's empty benches stay cold and clean even at noon because Mrs. Zhang wipes them religiously. Here’s where I find them this morning — four tiny dents in the wet soil, softer than Mom’s cashmere scarves. My curiosity grows as I wonder: what or whom has been in my yard? So begins my searching for the creator of these footprints.

“Hello? Are you playing hide-and-seek with me? I am coming!” After investigating under the big trees, beside the walls, and even in the dusty corners, more gentle marks emerge in my vision. They scatter across the ground like nature’s accidental artwork.

To make sure I get to meet my new friend, I go inside and rush up to the second floor.

“Mrs. Li, where are you! I need your help!”

“Yes? Hannah? What do you need?” Mrs. Li pokes her head out from a room she currently cleans.

“A camera, one with night vision. I found some footprints in the backyard, and I really want to figure out who made them.”

“Let’s take a look at your dad’s storage room. You know he has many treasures in there.”

With the help of Mrs. Li, I find exactly what I want: a dusty camera. Now, where to put it—somewhere hidden, of course, but also close to the area where I discovered the footprints. When I finish setting up my digital eye, I begin waiting patiently.

At 1:17 AM, I scramble for my iPad, fingers smudging the screen as I observe footage of an empty courtyard swaying under gloom. At 2:09 AM, the gloom still hangs, insects hovering. At 3:26 AM, my eyelids, heavy as the jade pendants in Mother’s untouched jewelry box, close.

When the warm morning touches me awake, one notification waits for me—motion detected at 5:03 AM. I hit play in anticipation and watch as it slowly walks into the picture, a little head probing. When those eyes find the camera, two rubies sparkle in the darkness. It then sniffs, staring curiously for a few seconds, tentatively touching the lens. It licks its paws and then curls up under the big tree to fall into a comfortable sleep. My visitor is a leopard cat, something I’ve only seen on the internet.

In pure joy, I rush from my room, running past the ancient courtyard to discover the cute, tiny focus of my recording still asleep, paws twitching with secret dreams, tail draped over moss-stained stone.

“Hi, nice to meet you.” This kind of greeting is strange to my tongue, like I haven’t met a new person in centuries. “I will name you Loki!”

His eyes slowly open. I approach him carefully in order to stroke him. His fur is rough, and I can feel his breath and powerful heartbeat. I imagine him running on the mountain and drinking stream water, until my eyes are caught by Loki’s right hind leg; it trembles. My throat tightens, and I take a closer look. “Oh my god!” His fur parts reveal a gash slicing across his leg — red flesh peeking through brown hair, dried blood clinging to his paw like crushed berries. “You are hurt!” I am immediately galvanized to help him.

The first aid kit hides behind Dad’s golf trophies. Iodine stains my palms orange as I sprint back. I hold the injured leg with one hand and use a cotton swab to take iodine bit by bit with the other hand, gently applying it to his wound. Loki lets out a cry of pain and instinctively pulls his legs back a little. It seems as if he understands that I am helping him, or perhaps his pain is such that he simply cannot run away. After applying the medicine, I use the silk scarf I found in my mother's room as gauze to bandage his wound.

To my understanding, the favorite food of cats must be tuna, and Loki must be no exception. I run to the kitchen, open the fridge, and take out several pieces of raw tuna slices. I also take the softest cushion from my chair. To prevent Loki from feeling lonely, I even deliberately take a polar bear plush toy. I trot back to the yard and find a corner to place the cushion and toy. Beside them, I gently set down the tuna slices. “You will love it,” I say to Loki. He eats voraciously.

Outside the walls of my home, wind chimes laugh as he curls into sleep, nose still pointing toward the mountains beyond the walls.

A couple of days pass, but Loki's injury still hasn't healed. It is while I am standing above him that Mrs. Zhang, who sweeps the yard, sees me. “Hannah! What are you looking at?”

“We have a leopard cat, Mrs. Zhang. He’s been here for a while, injured. I tried to help him with the first aid kit, but he’s not healing. I’ve named him Loki.”

Mrs. Zhang stares at me seriously. “Hannah, this ‘helping’ of the animal, though very noble, and I appreciate it, is actually not the best approach. I think the little cat might not be able to reintegrate into his natural habitat if we keep him here. And human medicine might not be good for animals.”

I fall silent, because I had forgotten that he, too, has a home, a real home in nature.

Mrs. Zhang smiles kindly at me and takes my hand. “I think we should call the Beijing Wildlife Rescue & Rehabilitation Center. They will know how to help Loki.” 

When the rescue team arrives, I am both relieved and sad. My new friend is leaving.

The wildlife rehabilitator seems grateful that I hadn’t tried to keep the animal, and so he smiles as he retrieves Loki. He turns back to me and gently says, “Thanks for your cooperation. Recently, more leopard cats have been spotted near homes, suggesting problems with their habitats in the mountains... We will take very good care of your friend.”

Days later, from my bedroom window, the mountains blur into watercolor. Beyond these walls, a wild heartbeat syncs with the wind’s rhythm, untethered from humanity and buildings.

We protect best when we let go.

Bibliography:

“Beijing Trail Cameras.” Wild Beijing, https://wildbeijing.org/beijing-trail-cameras/. Accessed 9 May 2025.

“Beijing Wildlife Rescue & Rehabilitation Center.” ZooChat, www.zoochat.com/community/media/categories/beijing-wildlife-rescue-rehabilitation-center.3083/. Accessed 16 May 2025.

“Leopard Cat in Beijing 北京豹猫.” Wild Beijing 北京自然, n.d., https://wildbeijing.org/leopard-cat-in-beijing-%E8%B1%B9%E7%8C%AB%E5%9C%A8%E5%8C%97%E4%BA%AC/. Accessed 2 May 2025.

Wild Beijing. Wild Beijing, https://wildbeijing.org/. Accessed 9 May 2025.