Episode 6: Echoes of The oak tree

The late November afternoon draped Crestwood in a muted gray, the sky heavy with clouds that promised rain but held back, as if undecided. Anne locked The Dandelion Pour after a sparse lunch shift, her apron still smudged with coffee grounds, and slipped into her coat, the weight of the past few weeks pressing against her ribs. Deon had been gone a month now, his voice crackling through calls from Tokyo, then Mumbai, each one shorter than the last—his world tour swallowing him whole. Gary's presence filled the gaps, his charm a steady hum against her loneliness, but it left her unsteady, caught between a love she'd sworn to keep and a pull she couldn't name.She needed air, clarity, something to anchor her. Her feet carried her past the bar's gravel lot, through the town's quiet streets, and toward the edge of Crestwood where the old oak tree stood—a relic of her childhood, its gnarled branches stretching over a field now overgrown with weeds. It wasn't the dandelion field of their starlit confession, but it was hers and Deon's first kingdom, a place where imagination had birthed him long before magic made him real.She stopped beneath its canopy, the bark rough under her palm, and closed her eyes. The wind rustled the leaves, and memory surged like a tide, pulling her back to those summers when she was six, seven, eight—small and fierce, escaping a house that echoed with her parents' shouts.She saw herself scrambling up the oak's lower branches, her knees scraped and her pigtails tangled, a toy sword tucked into her belt—a stick she'd whittled with her brother's pocketknife. Deon was there, conjured from her mind's quiet corner, perched beside her with his gap-toothed grin and sky-blue eyes. "Ready, Captain Anne?" he'd say, his voice bright as the sun filtering through the leaves."Ready," she'd reply, pointing the sword at invisible foes—pirates lurking in the bushes, dragons swooping from the clouds. They'd leap from branch to branch, her fortress a ship on stormy seas, his laughter her compass. One day, they'd built a makeshift fort from old planks and a tarp, dubbing it The Skyhold, its walls shaky but invincible in their game. She'd scribble their adventures in a spiral notebook—The Quest for the Golden Feather, The Battle of Thunder Isle—reading them aloud as he nodded, wide-eyed, her loyal knight.Nights were softer, the oak a refuge when the yelling downstairs grew too loud. She'd climb out her window, the tree's branches a ladder to safety, and whisper to Deon under the stars. "They hate each other," she'd say, her voice small, and he'd scoot closer, his imaginary warmth a shield. "They don't hate you," he'd promise. "And I'm here—always."She'd believed him then, his presence as real as the bark under her hands, a tether through the chaos. By twelve, she'd outgrown him—school, friends, a life that didn't need make-believe—but he'd lingered in her mind's shadows, waiting until Madame Lazare's powder pulled him back, flesh and bone, into her world.Anne opened her eyes, the oak's silhouette stark against the gray sky, and felt a pang—love, guilt, longing. Deon was hers, her creation turned partner, now chasing a dream across the globe. Gary's warmth was new, tangible, but these memories tethered her to Deon, a bond forged in innocence and tested by time. She leaned against the trunk, the past a lifeline she clutched tight.Miles away, in the dim clutter of her Crestwood shop, Madame Lazare sat across from Elias, the air thick with sage and unspoken stakes. The single bulb overhead flickered, casting jittery shadows over the jars and bones lining her shelves. Her opal pendant glowed faintly, a restless pulse, as she continued her tale, her voice a low rasp weaving through the past.Elias leaned forward, elbows on the counter, his gray coat pooling like ink. "You stopped after Jonah," he said, his tone probing. "Swore off the dream world—yet here you are, meddling again. Why Anne? Why Deon?"Lazare's hands stilled on the worn deck of cards, her eyes narrowing. "It's not meddling—it's atonement. You want the rest? Then listen."He nodded, sharp and silent, and she drew a breath, plunging back into her story."When Jonah died," she said, "the dream world didn't just take him—it marked me. I sealed the paths I'd walked, burned the sigils that opened them, but the damage was done. Sleep became a battlefield—every night, I'd feel its pull, hear its whispers. Shadows clawed at the edges of my mind, hungry for what I'd stolen—life, theirs and mine. I couldn't dream anymore, couldn't rest without risking a breach."Elias's fingers tapped the counter, a restless rhythm. "So you turned to fixes—powders, charms.""Yes," she said, her gaze distant. "Small magics, safe ones—herbs to soothe, talismans to shield. I helped the broken—sleepless souls, lost hearts—kept my hands clean of the deep stuff. Until Anne Baker walked in."Her voice hardened, the memory sharpening her words. "She wasn't just tired—her insomnia was a crack, a tear in the veil. I saw it in her eyes—something trapped, pressing to get out. Deon—her childhood imagining—wasn't gone, not like mine faded. He'd lingered in the dream world, caught in its web, a shadow with a heartbeat."Elias tilted his head, intrigued. "How?""The dream world feeds on what we leave behind," she said. "Thoughts, fears, creations—they drift there, take root. Most dissolve, but Anne's will was fierce—she'd poured so much into Deon, her knight, her shield. He grew, fed by her echoes, until he was more than a memory—almost alive, tethered to her. When her sleeplessness tore the veil, he pushed against it, desperate to cross."She tapped the counter, her pendant flaring briefly. "I gave her the dust—ground from dreamstone, a shard I'd kept from my old life. It's a conduit, a bridge. One pinch, and it pulled him through—made him real, flesh and blood. But it's fragile—he's bound to her, a thread stretched thin."Elias's eyes glinted, piecing it together. "And if the thread snaps?""He fades," she said, her voice dropping. "Back to the dream world—or worse, it claims him whole. It's a jealous place—doesn't let go easy."He leaned back, a faint smirk playing on his lips. "So you're their keeper now, guarding the breach.""I'm their penance," she corrected, echoing her earlier words. "I lost Jonah to my greed—won't lose them to my mistake. But it's not just them stirring trouble."She fixed him with a stare, sharp as broken glass. "You're poking at it, Elias—chasing rumors, sniffing around their glow. The dream world's waking—I feel it in my bones, a rumble I haven't known since Jonah. Your meddling's rousing it."He raised his hands, mock innocence. "I'm a collector, Lazare—stories, secrets. I don't wield your magic.""You don't need to," she snapped. "You disturb the balance just by looking. Anne and Deon—they're a spark, but you're the wind. Whatever's coming, you'll fan it."Elias's smirk faded, his gaze hardening. "Then tell me how to stop it. I swore no harm—meant it."She studied him, wary, then sighed. "It's not about stopping—it's about holding the line. Their thread's strong while they're tied—love, trust, whatever binds them. Break that, and the dream world creeps in."He nodded, slow and deliberate. "And you? Still its victim?""Always," she said, her fingers brushing the pendant. "I'm its prisoner—awake, asleep, every breath a bargain to keep it at bay."The shop fell silent, the flicker of the bulb a heartbeat in the dark. Elias stood, his coat rustling. "I'll watch them—quietly. But I need more, Lazare—details, signs. If it's waking, I'll know why.""Careful what you seek," she warned, her voice a whisper. "It seeks back."He tipped his head and left, the bell's chime a brittle farewell, leaving her alone with her shadows and the weight of a past that refused to sleep.Back at the oak tree, Anne sank to the ground, her back against the trunk, the wind stirring memories into the present. She pulled out her phone, scrolling to a photo of Deon—grinning in Tokyo, a bowl of ramen in hand—and felt that ache again. He'd been her knight here, her shield, and now he was a world away, chasing a dream she'd pushed him toward. Gary's warmth was here—his laughter, his touch—but it paled against these roots, this bond forged in childhood's wild heart.She typed a message: Miss you. Thinking of the oak tree—our old adventures. Call when you can. She hit send, the words a lifeline across the miles, and stood, brushing dirt from her jeans. Gary waited at the bar—his flyers, his plans—but Deon was her truth, her past and present entwined. She walked back to town, the oak's shadow stretching behind her, a reminder of what she wouldn't—couldn't—let go.