Chapter 77

Anthony rolled over when Mickey meowed, and Mickey meowed back. He reached below his mattress and extracted an old notebook, then removed the pencil from its place in the spine of the book. He started sketching quickly, without taking his eyes off the page; it was a routine for him to draw out her dreams as soon as he woke up, if he could. If only she had a place to sleep, some paper, and a charcoal or pencil to write with. Which wasn't the case all the time.

Mickey nibbled the corner of the paper, and Anthony pushed him off without looking up. Mickey continued to chew on the paper. When she had closed his eyes, he had caught a glimpse of a beautiful young woman, and he had begun to sketch her likeness. As usual, it was the same girl—the one with the tattoo on her arm and the dark eyes—who had appeared. Tattoo Girl. When Anthony talked about him to Mickey Cat and Sasha, at the very least, he referred to her by this name. Sometimes he even called her that. Even though Sasha was actually the only friend Anthony had established in this country, he never showed her the sketches. He didn't know how he could explain it—dreaming so often about a person who he only felt like he knew—and anyway, Sasha had stayed on at the old shelter when Anthony left, so they hadn't seen each other as frequently lately. He didn't know how he could explain dreaming so often about a person who he only felt like he knew.

Her hand traced an undulating path across the page, and the graphite details began to take form. The sloping profile of his nose. The strong contours of her jawline and the prominent cheekbones on her face. Her dark, wide-set eyes. The way in which her hair coiled into wild curls that almost covered his face from view. She depicted him in the drawing as standing in the far corner of a busy yard and looking directly at him.

Celine.

Celine Dupont.

At least in French, which Anthony's dreams were still in, that was her name. Anthony's dreams were still in French. The Americans referred to her as Celly, a name that Anthony thought was odd because it was such a short name and seemed like it was missing something. Tonight, it appeared as though she was playing some type of game by giving him a victory pose with raised arms.

It seemed like she was having a good time just hanging out with her friends, but watching him only made her feel more isolated and lonely.

Anthony, you don't have any need for pals. You need your brain. It is imperative that you maintain both your physical and mental toughness at all times. Make sure you keep your word on it.

While Anthony was fixating on the paper, his father's parting words to him began to make their way into his consciousness. Dr. Michael was widely regarded as one of the most accomplished spatial physicists in Europe, and he had acquired the skills necessary to battle for all he had accomplished the hard way. Her paternal grandfather earned his doctorate through years of toil.

Then, another voice spoke up, despite Anthony's best efforts to ignore it like he normally did, which it had been doing up until that point.

If I was able to accomplish it, Anthony, then you most certainly can as well. We are one and the same. In the same way.

It was something the woman in black had said to him right before she vanished into thin air. However, Anthony was not the same as anybody else, and especially not as she, and he was aware of this fact immediately. He was alone himself, and he had no one else in his life.

He would keep his strength and his sharpness. because the advice of my mother was sound.

He heaved a sigh and then placed the last touch, which was the Beret that was worn by the girl.

"Happy Christmas, Mike." Mickey retorted while cautiously prodding the paper with one paw and mumbling something.

Anthony used one hand to scratch underneath Mickey Cat's chin while using the other to browse through the pages of his notebook. The book was the only record of her wild nights, as it had been for many years prior to this point. It would have been impossible for him to believe it if he hadn't sketched it all himself. Nearly every page featured a Celine in some capacity. Activities such as fencing and kickboxing, as well as riding on the back of a friend's motorcycle, were enjoyed. While looking out the window of a classroom. Having fun with a little dog. Anthony touched the charcoal with her finger, which caused the straight lines to become more blurry.

Who are you, Celine Dupont? And more importantly, what does it have to do with me?