Episode 4: The shape of shadows

The apartment was quiet save for the faint scratch of Deon's pen against paper, a sound that had become a strange comfort over the past few days. Anne stood at the stove, stirring a pot of soup—something hearty, thick with potatoes and leeks, a recipe she'd pulled from a dusty cookbook to keep her hands busy. It was Sunday, her first day off since Deon's arrival, and the weight of his presence pressed heavier now that she couldn't escape into work. He'd written three more articles since that first one, each sharper than the last, his words threading through her mind like echoes of a voice she'd once known. But the more he wrote, the more she wondered: who was he, really? Not the boy she'd imagined, not anymore—but what?She glanced at him over her shoulder. He sat at the desk, hunched over the notebook, his green jacket slung over the chair's back. The late afternoon light filtered through the blinds, painting his messy brown hair with streaks of gold. He looked so human—too human—and yet there was an otherness to him, a shimmer at the edges she couldn't pin down. She'd avoided asking too much, afraid of what the answers might unravel, but the questions gnawed at her now, sharp and insistent."Deon," she said, setting the spoon down. The word hung in the air, pulling his attention from the page.He looked up, his sky-blue eyes catching hers. "Yeah?"She hesitated, wiping her hands on a dish towel. "Where did you come from? Really come from, I mean. Not just… the powder. Before that."His pen stilled, and for a moment, he didn't move, his gaze fixed on her with a weight that made her chest tighten. Then he leaned back, running a hand through his hair—a gesture she'd come to recognize as his way of buying time. "You want the whole story, huh?""I want something," she said, crossing her arms. "You're here, writing, eating my food, acting like you belong. But you're not normal. You're not supposed to be real. I need to understand what you are."He nodded slowly, setting the pen down. "Fair enough. I'll tell you what I know—but it's not all neat and tidy. It's… messy, like your first drafts."She almost smiled, but the unease held her back. She pulled out a chair and sat across from him, the table a small barrier between them. "Go on."Deon took a breath, his fingers tapping lightly against the notebook. "I started with you. That much you know. You were six, maybe seven, and the house was loud—your parents yelling, doors slamming. You'd hide under that yellow blanket with the frayed edges, whispering to me. I didn't have a name at first—just a shape, a feeling. You called me Deon one day, said it sounded brave, like a knight from one of your books."Anne's throat tightened. She remembered that blanket, the way it smelled of laundry soap and safety, the way she'd clutch it while the world shook around her. "I made you up," she said, more to herself than to him. "To feel less alone.""Yeah," he said softly. "You did. But it wasn't just pretend—not to me. You gave me a voice, a face, all those stories. I was your shadow, your echo. Every time you talked to me, I got clearer—brown hair because you liked the boy in The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe, blue eyes because you said they looked like the sky on good days. I wasn't just a puppet, though. I started… feeling things. Wanting things. I'd listen when you cried, fight your pillow dragons, sit with you in that treehouse. I was yours, but I was me too."Her hands clenched in her lap, the memories flooding back—sharp, vivid, like shards of glass she'd swept under a rug. "But I stopped. I grew up. You were gone."Deon's gaze dropped to the table, his fingers tracing a scratch in the wood. "Not gone. Not really. When you stopped imagining me, I didn't just vanish. It's hard to explain—like I was stuck, suspended. Not alive, not dead, just… waiting. A story you left half-written, floating in the dark. I didn't feel time the way you do—no days or nights, no growing old. Just pieces of you, flickering through. Your voice, sometimes, when you'd dream about the oak tree or mutter my name without meaning to. It kept me there, like a thread I could hold onto."Anne frowned, leaning forward. "You're saying I kept you alive? Even when I forgot you?""Sort of." He met her eyes again, a faint smile tugging at his lips. "You didn't forget me completely—not deep down. I was still in there, tucked away with the blanket and the crayons. I think that's why I didn't fade. I was yours, Anne. You made me too solid to disappear."Her mind reeled, grappling with the idea—a creation she'd abandoned, lingering like a ghost in the corners of her subconscious. "But you're not that boy anymore," she said. "You're… grown. You write, you think, you're more than I made you."Deon nodded, his expression turning thoughtful. "That's the part I don't fully get. When I was waiting, I wasn't still—I was… shifting. Changing. It's like I grew up with you, even without you knowing. All those years you were living—school, jobs, moving here—I was picking up pieces, filling in the gaps. Your strength, your fears, the way you'd fight through the dark. I took it in, made it mine. By the time you took that powder, I wasn't just the kid anymore. I was this." He gestured to himself, the lean frame, the faint lines around his eyes. "Me, but more."Anne stared at him, her pulse quickening. "So you're saying you evolved? Like some kind of… imaginary parasite, feeding off my life?"He winced, but the grin flickered back. "Not a parasite. More like a shadow that learned to stand on its own. I didn't take anything from you—I just… borrowed what you left behind."The soup bubbled over on the stove, a sharp hiss pulling her from the moment. She jumped up, cursing under her breath as she turned down the heat, the steam curling around her like a shroud. She stirred it absently, her mind still on Deon's words. A shadow that learned to stand. It was poetic, haunting, and it didn't answer the question gnawing at her: what had Madame Lazare done to make him real?She turned back to him, leaning against the counter. "Okay, so you were waiting, growing, whatever. But how did you get here? That powder—it's not just magic fairy dust. It did something to you, to us. What was the price?"Deon's grin faded, his eyes darkening. "I don't know the how. One second I was nowhere, the next I was here, standing by your couch, smelling pine and feeling the floor under my feet. It was like waking up, but sharper—every sense lit up at once. As for the price…" He hesitated, his voice dropping. "I think it's me, Anne. I'm the price. You forgot me, let me go, and now I'm back. Maybe that's what she meant—something you buried, pulled out of the ground."Her stomach twisted, Madame Lazare's rasping voice echoing in her head: Something you've forgotten. Deon fit the bill, no question. But it didn't feel complete, didn't explain the warmth of his presence, the way his articles stirred something in her she couldn't name. "That's too simple," she said. "There's more to it. I can feel it.""Maybe there is," he admitted, standing to join her by the counter. "But I don't have the answers. I'm figuring this out same as you. All I know is I'm here, and it's because of you—not just the powder, but you. You made me, Anne. You're why I'm real."She looked up at him, his closeness sending a shiver through her. He was solid, warm, the faint scent of pine and sweetness clinging to him like a memory. Her hand twitched, tempted again to touch him, to test the reality he claimed. This time, she didn't stop herself—she reached out, her fingers brushing the sleeve of his shirt. It was rough, worn, undeniably there. He stiffened slightly, but didn't pull away, his eyes locked on hers."You feel real," she whispered, echoing his words from the street. "But you're still impossible."He smiled, a soft, crooked thing that made her chest ache. "Maybe I'm both."She dropped her hand, stepping back to the stove, her heart thudding too loud. "I need to know more. About the powder, about Madame Lazare. If you're the price, I need to understand what that means—for both of us."Deon nodded, leaning against the counter with a casual ease that belied the weight of their talk. "You want to go back to her?""Maybe." She ladled soup into bowls, the steam rising between them. "But not yet. I need to think. And you—" She handed him a bowl, her voice firming. "You need to keep writing. It's the only thing keeping me from losing my mind over this."He took the bowl, his grin returning. "Deal. But you're reading everything I write. Editor's orders."She snorted, but the tension eased, a fragile truce settling over them. They ate in silence, the clink of spoons against ceramic filling the space where words failed. Anne's mind churned, piecing together Deon's origins—her creation, her shadow, her forgotten tether brought to life. He was more than she'd imagined, more than she'd intended, and that scared her. But it also drew her in, a pull she couldn't shake.Later, as the sun dipped below the horizon and the apartment darkened, Anne sat on the couch with one of Deon's articles in her hands. This one was about a river that flowed backward, a metaphor for memory and loss that hit too close to home. His writing was getting better—sharper, deeper, the raw edges smoothing out. She marked a few spots with a pencil, her editor's instinct kicking in, but her thoughts kept drifting to his story.He'd been born from her loneliness, a boy stitched from scraps of her childhood—books, blankets, the oak tree's sheltering branches. But he'd grown beyond that, shaped by years in a nowhere she couldn't fathom, fueled by the echoes of her life. And now, Madame Lazare's powder had yanked him into being, a price she hadn't bargained for. Was it her memory of him that powered it? Her need? Or something darker, something the witch doctor had woven into the black dust?Deon sat at the desk, scribbling again, the pen's scratch a steady rhythm. She watched him, the curve of his shoulders, the way his hair fell over his forehead. He was hers, yes—but he was his own too, a paradox she couldn't unravel. And as she set the article down, a new question settled in her chest: if he was the price, what would it cost her to keep him?The night deepened, shadows pooling in the corners, and Anne felt the weight of it all—the sleep she'd gained, the man she'd summoned, the mystery still unsolved. Deon glanced back at her, his eyes catching the lamplight, and for a moment, she saw the boy he'd been—gap-toothed, grinning, her shield against the dark. But he was more now, and so was she."Keep writing," she said again, her voice steady despite the storm inside her. "We'll figure this out."He nodded, turning back to the page, and the scratch of the pen resumed, a thread tying them together—past to present, imagination to reality, shadow to light.Anne Baker had wanted sleep. She'd gotten it—and with it, a piece of herself she'd never meant to reclaim.