Episode 2: Echoes of Make -Believe

Anne sat motionless on the couch, her hands still pressed to her temples as if she could squeeze the impossible out of her skull. Deon stood a few feet away, his boots scuffing the hardwood with a restless shuffle. The morning light slanted through the blinds, cutting sharp lines across his face—those sky-blue eyes, that familiar grin now tinged with something uncertain, almost shy. He looked real, too real, down to the frayed hem of his green jacket and the faint smudge of dirt on his knuckles. But he couldn't be. He was a figment, a ghost of her childhood imagination, not a man who could stand in her living room and cast a shadow."How?" she finally said, her voice raw. "How are you here?"Deon shrugged again, a gesture that seemed to be his default when words failed him. "I told you, I don't know the details. One minute I was… nowhere, I guess. Just a memory, or less than that. Then I felt you—like a tug, a pull—and here I am.""Here you are," she echoed, her gaze darting from his face to the bat still lying on the floor. She half-expected him to vanish if she blinked, but he didn't. He stayed solid, watching her with an intensity that made her skin prickle.She stood abruptly, needing to move, to do something other than sit there drowning in questions. Her legs wobbled, still unsteady from the shock, but she forced herself to the kitchen. The wooden box from Madame Lazare sat open on the counter, its black powder glinting faintly. She stared at it, her stomach twisting. This was the culprit—the cure that had delivered sleep and dragged Deon out of the ether as its price."You okay?" Deon's voice came from behind her, softer now. She turned to find him leaning against the doorway, arms crossed, his head tilted as if he were studying her the way she'd studied manuscripts—searching for errors, for meaning."No," she snapped, sharper than she meant to. "I'm not okay. You're not supposed to be real. You're—" She stopped, the words tangling in her throat. What was he, exactly? A dream? A hallucination? A mistake?Deon's grin flickered back, but it didn't reach his eyes. "I get it. This is weird for me too, you know. I didn't ask to pop into your life like this.""Then why are you here?" She crossed her arms, mirroring his stance. "What do you want?"He hesitated, his gaze dropping to the floor. "I don't know. To help you, maybe? Like I used to.""Help me?" Anne laughed, a brittle sound. "You were a kid's imaginary friend. You helped me fight dragons made of pillows and sneak cookies from the jar. This isn't a game anymore—I'm losing my job, my mind, everything."His eyes lifted, meeting hers with a quiet steadiness that made her breath catch. "I wasn't just that, Anne. You made me more. You gave me stories, a whole world. I remember it all—the treehouse battles, the secret codes, the nights you'd whisper your fears to me when the yelling downstairs wouldn't stop. I was there for you."The words hit her like a punch, dragging up memories she'd buried deep. Her parents' fights, the shouting that rattled the walls of her childhood home, the way she'd curl up under her blankets and talk to Deon until the noise faded. He'd been her shield, her escape, a boy she'd conjured from loneliness and given life through sheer will. But that was then. This was now, and he wasn't a figment anymore—he was flesh and bone, standing in her kitchen, dredging up a past she'd rather forget."I don't need a babysitter," she said, turning away to fill the kettle. Her hands shook as she set it on the stove, the click of the burner loud in the silence. "I need to figure out what's happening. If you're real, there's got to be a reason. A rule. Something.""Maybe there isn't," Deon said, stepping closer. "Maybe I'm just… here."She shot him a look over her shoulder. "Nothing's that simple. Madame Lazare said there'd be a price—something I'd forgotten. That's you, obviously. But why? What's the catch?"He didn't answer right away. Instead, he moved to the counter, peering into the wooden box with a frown. "This stuff smells like the forest from your dreams. Pine and something sweet. You think it's what brought me back?""Probably." She watched him, her unease growing. He seemed so at ease, too comfortable in a world he shouldn't belong to. "But it doesn't explain how you're solid. Or why you're not still seven years old."Deon chuckled, running a hand through his hair. "Yeah, I noticed that too. I don't feel like a kid anymore. It's like… I grew up with you, in a way. All those years you forgot me, I was still there, somewhere, changing. Waiting.""Waiting for what?" she pressed."For you to need me again." His voice was quiet, almost too quiet, and it sent a shiver down her spine.Anne turned back to the kettle, her mind racing. She didn't want to need him. She didn't want to need anyone. But as the water began to hiss and steam curled into the air, she couldn't shake the feeling that he was right—that some part of her, buried beneath the exhaustion and the years, had called him back.The day stretched into a strange limbo. Anne showered, dressed, and brewed coffee, moving through her routine on autopilot while Deon hovered at the edges of her life. He didn't sit still—pacing the living room, flipping through her books, tapping his fingers against the windowsill like a restless child. Yet there was something deliberate about him too, a quiet watchfulness that made her feel both exposed and oddly safe.She tried to ignore him, firing off an email to Gerald with apologies and promises to catch up on work. But her eyes kept drifting to Deon, catching the way he tilted his head at the titles on her shelf—The Secret Garden, A Wrinkle in Time, books she'd loved as a kid. He picked up a worn copy of Peter Pan, flipping it open with a faint smile."You always liked the lost boys," he said, glancing at her. "Said I reminded you of them."Anne froze, the memory surfacing unbidden: her ten-year-old self sprawled on the oak tree's branches, telling Deon he was her own lost boy, free from rules and grown-ups. "I forgot about that," she muttered, turning back to her laptop."You forgot a lot," he said, not accusing, just stating a fact. "But I didn't."She didn't respond, focusing on the screen until the words blurred. Finally, she slammed the laptop shut and stood. "I can't work with you here. It's too… distracting.""Want me to leave?" he asked, setting the book down."No!" The word came out too fast, surprising her. She softened it with a sigh. "I mean, I don't know. I don't even know what you are. Can you leave? Do you need to eat? Sleep? What happens if I tell you to go?"Deon laughed, a sound that eased the tension in her chest despite herself. "I don't know. I'm new at this too. But I'm not hungry, and I don't feel tired. I think I'm tied to you, somehow. Like I used to be.""Tied to me," she repeated, the weight of it sinking in. "Great. So I've got a permanent houseguest I didn't ask for.""Could be worse," he said, grinning. "I could be a dragon made of pillows."She almost smiled—almost. Instead, she grabbed her coat. "I need air. Come with me, or don't. Just… don't touch anything while I'm gone."He followed her without a word, slipping out the door behind her like a shadow.The neighborhood outside was gray and damp, the sky a heavy slab of clouds pressing down on the rowhouses. Anne walked fast, her breath puffing in the cold, Deon keeping pace beside her. He didn't speak, just watched the world with a quiet curiosity—cars rumbling past, a dog barking behind a fence, a kid on a scooter weaving through puddles. It was as if he were seeing it all for the first time, drinking it in."Where did you go?" she asked suddenly, the question spilling out before she could stop it. "When I stopped imagining you, where did you go?"Deon's steps slowed, his hands shoving deeper into his pockets. "Nowhere, really. It's hard to explain. It wasn't like I was awake or asleep—just… waiting. Like a story you put down but didn't finish. I didn't feel time, not the way you do. Just bits and pieces—your voice, sometimes, when you'd think about me without meaning to. It was enough to keep me there, I guess."Anne stopped, turning to face him. "I didn't think about you. Not after I turned twelve. I grew up.""You did," he agreed, his eyes searching hers. "But I didn't. Not until now. Maybe that's why I'm like this—grown, but still me. You gave me a shape back then, and I held onto it."She frowned, trying to piece it together. "So you're saying I made you? All of you? The way you look, the way you talk?""Sort of." He rubbed the back of his neck, a gesture that felt oddly human for someone who shouldn't be. "You started it. I was your lost boy, your knight, your whatever-you-needed-me-to-be. But I think… I think I filled in the gaps myself, over time. The parts you didn't see."The idea unsettled her—a creation she'd abandoned, growing in the dark like a seed she'd forgotten to water. "And now you're here," she said. "Because of that powder.""Yeah." He glanced at her, his grin softening. "Guess I owe you one.""You owe me?" She snorted, starting to walk again. "I didn't ask for this.""Maybe not," he said, falling into step. "But you got me anyway."They walked in silence for a while, the city humming around them. Anne's mind churned, wrestling with the absurdity of it all. Deon wasn't just a memory—he was a presence, warm and solid beside her, his breath misting in the air. She stole a glance at him, catching the way his hair fell over his forehead, the faint lines around his eyes that hinted at a life she hadn't given him. He was more than she remembered, more than she'd imagined, and that scared her as much as it intrigued her."Where are we going?" he asked eventually, breaking the quiet."I don't know," she admitted. "I just needed to move. To think.""About me?""About everything." She stopped at a corner, the wind tugging at her coat. "You being here changes things. I don't know what to do with you."Deon's expression softened, his voice dropping. "You don't have to do anything. I'm not here to mess up your life, Anne. I'm here because you called me. And maybe… maybe I'm here because I missed you."Her chest tightened, a pang she couldn't name. "You can't miss me. You're not real.""I feel real," he said simply, stepping closer. "Don't I?"She didn't answer, couldn't. He was close enough now that she could smell the pine and sweetness on him, feel the warmth radiating from his jacket. Her hand twitched, tempted to reach out and touch him, to test his solidity, but she curled it into a fist instead."Let's go back," she said abruptly, turning away. "I need to eat. And you… I don't know what you need."He followed her again, quiet but steady, a tether she hadn't asked for but couldn't seem to shake.Back in the apartment, Anne made toast and scrambled eggs, the mundane task grounding her. Deon sat at the table, watching her with that same curious intensity. She slid a plate in front of him out of habit, then froze."Do you even eat?" she asked.He grinned, picking up a piece of toast. "Let's find out."He took a bite, chewing slowly, his brow furrowing as if he were analyzing the sensation. "Huh. It's… good. Crunchy. I like it."Anne stared, torn between amusement and disbelief. "You've never eaten before?""Not like this," he said, swallowing. "Not real food. In your stories, we'd have feasts—roast chicken, apple pie, all that stuff you saw in books. But it was pretend. This is different."She sat across from him, picking at her own plate. "So you remember everything I made up for you?""Most of it." He took another bite, his eyes lighting up. "The good parts, anyway. The adventures. The quiet nights. You were always the brave one—I just tagged along.""I wasn't brave," she said, her voice tightening. "I was scared all the time. That's why I made you."Deon paused, his fork hovering over the eggs. "Maybe. But you kept going. That's what I remember—how you'd face the dark, even when it was big and loud. You didn't need me as much as you thought."She looked away, the memory of those nights stinging. "I don't want to talk about it.""Okay," he said easily, leaning back. "What do you want to talk about?"She didn't know. She didn't know how to talk to him, how to fit him into her life. But as they sat there, the clink of forks against plates filling the silence, she felt something shift—a thread of connection, fragile but real, winding between them. He wasn't just a ghost of her past; he was here, eating her toast, smiling at her with those sky-blue eyes. And for the first time in weeks, she didn't feel alone.Anne Baker had wanted sleep. She'd gotten it—and now, she was starting to realize, she'd gotten something else too.