Episode 1: Insomnia

Anne Baker hadn't slept in thirty-seven days. Not a wink, not a doze, not even the faintest brush of oblivion to soften the edges of her fraying mind. The world had become a relentless kaleidoscope of sharp corners and muted colors, every sound a needle jabbed into her skull. Coffee didn't help anymore—it just made her hands shake and her heart stutter like a dying engine. Pills, teas, meditation tapes, white noise machines—none of it worked. She'd tried everything short of drilling a hole in her head to let the exhaustion pour out.Her apartment was a tomb of half-finished remedies: lavender sachets spilling their withered guts across the kitchen counter, a cracked humidifier wheezing in the corner, a bottle of melatonin tablets rolling under the couch. The clock on her nightstand glowed 3:17 a.m., its red digits mocking her as they ticked forward with mechanical indifference. She stared at the ceiling, tracing the familiar cracks that spiderwebbed above her bed, waiting for a miracle that never came.Anne's job hung by a thread. She was a copyeditor at a small publishing house, a gig that once felt like a quiet dream—tucking herself into other people's words, polishing their stories until they gleamed. But now her eyes burned too much to focus, and her brain stumbled over sentences like a drunk tripping down stairs. Last week, she'd missed a deadline for the first time in five years, and her boss, a wiry man named Gerald with a perpetual frown, had called her into his office."Anne," he'd said, tapping a pen against his desk, "you look like death warmed over. I can't keep covering for you. Get it together, or we're done."She'd nodded, mumbled something about a doctor's appointment, and shuffled back to her desk. The truth was, she'd seen three doctors already. Insomnia, they called it, as if slapping a label on it made it less of a curse. They prescribed pills that left her nauseous and wired, then shrugged when she came back worse than before. "Stress," one said. "Maybe a therapist," another suggested. None of them understood that sleep wasn't just elusive—it was gone, a door slammed shut and bolted.Tonight, though, was different. Tonight, she'd hit a breaking point. Her hands trembled as she pulled on her coat, the fabric damp from a rain she didn't remember walking through. She grabbed her keys and stumbled out into the sodium-lit streets of her crumbling neighborhood, a maze of sagging rowhouses and flickering streetlights. The air smelled of wet asphalt and regret, and her boots slapped against the pavement with a rhythm that matched the thudding in her chest.She wasn't going to another doctor. She wasn't even going to the 24-hour pharmacy for yet another useless tincture. No, Anne Baker was headed somewhere she'd never thought she'd go: the edge of town, where the streetlights gave way to shadow and the rumors whispered of a woman who could fix what medicine couldn't.The witch doctor's house wasn't what Anne had expected. No crooked cottage with a bubbling cauldron, no bones rattling in the wind. It was a narrow brick building wedged between a laundromat and a shuttered pawn shop, its windows covered with faded blackout curtains. A handwritten sign taped to the door read, "Madame Lazare—Solutions for the Lost." The ink was smudged, as if someone had second thoughts about advertising.Anne hesitated, her hand hovering over the chipped doorbell. This was insane. She wasn't the kind of person who believed in magic—her life was built on logic, on commas and semicolons and the quiet order of words. But desperation had a way of rewriting the rules. She pressed the bell.A low buzz sounded, followed by the creak of footsteps. The door swung open, revealing a woman who looked both ancient and ageless—skin like weathered parchment, eyes sharp as broken glass. She wore a loose tunic stained with something dark at the hem, and her hair was a tangle of gray curls spilling over her shoulders. She smelled faintly of sage and something metallic."You're the sleepless one," Madame Lazare said, her voice a low rasp that seemed to vibrate in Anne's bones. It wasn't a question.Anne blinked, caught off guard. "I—yes. How did you—""Doesn't matter." The woman stepped aside, gesturing into the dim interior. "Come in. You're wasting time."The room beyond was cluttered and strange, a hoard of mismatched objects: shelves lined with jars of dried herbs and cloudy liquids, a table strewn with feathers and bits of bone, a cracked mirror leaning against the wall. A single bulb dangled from the ceiling, casting jittery shadows. Anne's stomach twisted, but she followed, her exhaustion outweighing her fear.Madame Lazare didn't ask for details. She didn't need to. She circled Anne like a hawk sizing up prey, her eyes flicking over the dark circles, the trembling hands, the way Anne's shoulders slumped as if the weight of her own body was too much. Finally, she stopped and crossed her arms."You want sleep," she said. "Real sleep, not the half-dead daze you've been chasing.""Yes," Anne whispered, her voice cracking. "Please."The woman nodded, turning to a shelf and pulling down a small wooden box. She pried it open with a thumbnail, revealing a pile of black powder that shimmered faintly, like crushed stars. "This will do it. One pinch under your tongue before bed. You'll sleep like the dead."Anne's heart leapt, a fragile spark of hope flickering to life. "That's it? Just… powder?"Madame Lazare's lips curled into something that wasn't quite a smile. "Nothing's that simple, girl. There's a price."Of course there was. Anne's spark dimmed slightly, but she straightened her spine. "How much?""Not money." The woman's eyes glinted. "Something deeper. Something you've forgotten."Anne frowned, her mind too foggy to parse riddles. "I don't understand.""You will." Madame Lazare snapped the box shut and pressed it into Anne's hands. "Take it. Use it. When the price comes knocking, you'll know."Anne wanted to argue, to demand clarity, but the weight of the box in her palms felt like an anchor pulling her toward a decision she'd already made. She nodded mutely, clutching it to her chest. Madame Lazare ushered her out without another word, the door slamming shut behind her with a finality that echoed in the empty street.Back in her apartment, Anne stood over her kitchen sink, the box open in front of her. The black powder glittered under the fluorescent light, tiny flecks catching the glow like distant galaxies. Her hands shook as she pinched a small amount between her fingers, the texture gritty and cool. It smelled faintly of earth and something sweet, like overripe fruit.She hesitated, Madame Lazare's words circling her mind like vultures. A price. Something she'd forgotten. But what did that even mean? She'd spent years burying pieces of herself—old dreams, old hurts, old hopes—but nothing specific came to mind. And anyway, what did it matter? She needed sleep. She needed her life back.Before she could talk herself out of it, she slipped the powder under her tongue. It dissolved instantly, bitter and sharp, spreading a tingling warmth through her mouth. She stumbled to her bedroom, collapsing onto the mattress without bothering to undress. Her eyes drifted shut, heavy as lead, and for the first time in thirty-seven days, the world went dark.She dreamed of a boy.He was small at first, no older than seven, with messy brown hair and eyes the color of a summer sky. He sat cross-legged on the floor of her childhood bedroom, a space she hadn't thought of in years—yellow wallpaper peeling at the edges, a rickety desk littered with crayons, a window overlooking the oak tree where she'd once built a fort. The boy grinned at her, gap-toothed and familiar, holding up a toy soldier he'd pilfered from her brother's collection."Anne," he said, his voice bright and clear. "You're back."She knew him instantly. Deon. Her imaginary friend, the one she'd conjured at six years old when her parents fought too loud and the house felt too big. He'd been her shadow through lonely summers, her co-conspirator in games of make-believe, her confidant when the real world grew too heavy. She'd forgotten him by twelve, leaving him behind with the dolls and dress-up clothes she'd outgrown."Deon?" Her voice trembled, caught between wonder and disbelief. "You're not real."He laughed, a sound like wind chimes, and stood up. As he did, he changed—stretching taller, his features sharpening, his body filling out until he was no longer a boy but a man. Lean and wiry, with that same unruly hair and those same sky-blue eyes, now framed by faint lines that suggested a life lived. He wore a faded green jacket and jeans, clothes that looked borrowed from another time, and his grin softened into something warmer, something that made her chest ache."I'm real enough now," he said, stepping closer. "Thanks to you."The dream shifted, the bedroom melting into a forest of towering pines, their needles soft under her bare feet. Deon walked beside her, his presence solid and warm, his shoulder brushing hers as they moved through the mist. She wanted to ask how, why, what it all meant, but the words wouldn't come. Instead, she felt a strange peace settle over her, a quiet she hadn't known since childhood.And then she woke up.Sunlight streamed through her window, painting gold across the floor. Anne bolted upright, her heart pounding. She'd slept. Not just slept—slept deeply, dream-heavy and unbroken, for what felt like hours. The clock read 10:43 a.m. Eight hours. Eight impossible, glorious hours.She laughed, a ragged sound that broke into a sob. Her head was clear, her body light, the fog of exhaustion lifted like a curtain. She could think again, breathe again. It had worked. Whatever Madame Lazare's powder was, it had worked.She swung her legs out of bed, ready to leap into the day—shower, coffee, an apology email to Gerald—when a noise stopped her cold. A soft thud, like something heavy shifting, coming from the living room.Her apartment was small, a single hallway connecting the bedroom, bathroom, and the open space that served as kitchen and living area. She lived alone. There shouldn't have been any noise."Hello?" she called, her voice thin in the silence.No answer. Just another sound—a faint rustle, like fabric brushing against fabric.Anne grabbed the baseball bat she kept under her bed, a relic from a brief stint on a company softball team, and crept toward the door. Her pulse hammered in her ears as she eased it open, peering into the hallway. Empty. She stepped out, bat raised, and moved toward the living room.The sight that greeted her made the bat slip from her hands, clattering to the floor.A man stood by her couch, his back to her as he studied the bookshelves crammed with paperbacks. He was tall, with messy brown hair spilling over the collar of a faded green jacket. He turned at the sound of the bat, and Anne's breath caught in her throat.Sky-blue eyes. A familiar grin."Morning, Anne," Deon said, as if he'd been there all along. "You look better than last night."She stared, her mind scrambling to make sense of him. He wasn't a dream anymore—he was flesh and bone, standing in her living room, his boots leaving faint scuff marks on the hardwood. The air around him smelled faintly of pine and something sweet, like the powder she'd taken."You're… here," she managed, her voice barely a whisper. "How are you here?"He shrugged, shoving his hands into his pockets. "You brought me back. Don't ask me the details—I'm still figuring it out myself. But I'm here, and I'm not going anywhere."Anne's knees buckled, and she sank onto the edge of the couch, her hands pressing against her temples. Madame Lazare's voice echoed in her head: Something you've forgotten. Deon. She'd forgotten Deon, buried him in the recesses of her childhood, and now he was standing in front of her, real and impossible."What do you want?" she asked, her voice trembling.Deon tilted his head, his grin fading into something softer, almost tender. "I don't know yet. To be with you, I guess. Like we used to be."Her chest tightened, a tangle of fear and wonder twisting inside her. He wasn't just a memory brought to life—he was something more, something she'd unleashed without understanding the cost. And as he stepped closer, his presence filling the room like a warm breeze, she felt the first stirrings of something she hadn't felt in years: a connection, fragile and electric, pulling her toward him.Anne Baker had wanted sleep. She'd gotten it—and something far stranger in return.