Chapter 3: Kaye
EL'S APARTMENT – 7:03 AM
El was still staring at the card when his phone buzzed violently against the nightstand, rattling like an angry insect.
DEMI: GOOD MORNING LOVERBOY DID YOU CALL HER YET??
DEMI: IT'S BEEN 8 HOURS. 8. THAT'S 480 MINUTES. THAT'S 28,800 SECONDS OF YOU WASTING YOUR ROMANTIC POTENTIAL.
DEMI: EL I SWEAR IF YOU DON'T TEXT ME BACK IN THE NEXT 30 SECONDS
I'M COMING TO YOUR APARTMENT AND I WILL BRING MY EMERGENCY INTERVENTION SPREADSHEET.
El read the messages with the same flat expression he used for quarterly reports.
Internally, a small part of him appreciated the dedication.
The rest of him wondered if murdering his best friend would count as self-defense.
Oreo was staring at him from the foot of the bed, still offended about the earlier betrayal.
"You think he's extra today?"
El asked the cat, his voice devoid of emotion—the same tone he used when asking about spreadsheet formatting.
Oreos blinked once.
Judgementally.
His phone buzzed again.
DEMI: 28 SECONDS.
DEMI: I'M PUTTING ON SHOES.
DEMI: I DON'T EVEN WEAR SHOES INSIDE MY APARTMENT. THAT'S HOW SERIOUS THIS IS.
El sighed—a quiet, controlled exhale that betrayed absolutely nothing.
He typed back with the mechanical precision of someone filing paperwork.
EL: It's 7 AM. I haven't had coffee. I haven't brushed my teeth. I haven't decided if I believe in love or if it's just a chemical reaction designed to make us reproduce.
DEMI: DRAMATIC. UNNECESSARY. CALL HER.
EL: I'll see you at work.
DEMI:THAT'S NOT A YES OR NO.
EL: That's a "I'll see you at work.
DEMI: FINE. BUT THIS CONVERSATION ISN'T OVER. I'M BRINGING VISUAL AIDS.
El stared at the message.
Visual aids.
That was terrifying.
His expression remained perfectly neutral, but somewhere deep in his chest, a flicker of dread sparked.
He looked back at the card one more time.
Sweet dreams, El.
The words hadn't vanished overnight.
They were still there, mocking him, daring him to understand.
"Sweet dreams," he muttered flatly.
"More like sweet nightmares."
Oreo meowed.
Probably in agreement.
Or possibly just to complain. With Oreo, it was hard to tell.
----
TATE ASSOCIATION – 8:47 AM
The Tate Association occupied floors 8 through 12 of the Sterling Tower, a building that looked impressive from the outside but revealed its true soul the moment you stepped into the elevator: beige.
Everything was beige.
Beige walls.
Beige carpets.
Beige cubicles.
Beige hopes.
Beige dreams.
The Marketing Department lived on the 9th floor, a sprawling labyrinth of identical workstations designed by someone who clearly believed that personality was a disease that needed curing.
Each cubicle was exactly 6 feet by 6 feet—enough space for a human to exist, but not enough to thrive.
The fluorescent lights hummed a constant, melancholy note, like a choir of depressed bees.
El's cubicle was, predictably, immaculate.
Pens arranged by color.
Papers stacked at perfect right angles.
His monitor was positioned exactly 18 inches from the edge of the desk.
A small succulent sat in the corner—his one concession to "life"—though even that looked professionally pruned.
If his cubicle were a person, it would wear a tie and have excellent posture.
Beside him, separated by a thin partition that did absolutely nothing to contain sound, was Demi's cubicle.
Demi's cubicle looked like a disaster zone had declared war on a paper factory and both had lost.
Sticky notes covered every available surface, most of them with messages like "SNACKS???" and "REMEMBER:
YOU'RE AMAZING (AND ALSO HUNGRY)" and one that simply said "HELP" in increasingly shaky handwriting.
A half-eaten bag of chips sat permanently on his desk, acting as both decoration and emergency rations.
If Demi's cubicle were a person, it would be screaming.
The office was already waking up.
Keyboards clicked.
Phones rang.
Someone in accounting was having an intense whispered argument about spreadsheet formatting.
El sat down, took a deep breath of recycled air, and prepared for another day of moving papers from one pile to another.
His face betrayed nothing—just the calm, collected mask of a man who had accepted his place in the universe.
He made it approximately 90 seconds.
A head appeared over his cubicle wall.
Demi's head.
Grinning like a man who had found the last cookie on Earth.
"GOOD MORNING, SUNSHINE,"
Demi announced at a volume that was absolutely not office-appropriate.
El didn't look up from his monitor.
His fingers continued typing with mechanical precision.
"It's too early for your face."
"My face is a gift. Now."
Demi vaulted over the partition instead of using the entrance, landing with a grace that suggested he'd practiced this exactly zero times.
He stumbled, caught himself on El's desk, and knocked over the perfectly aligned pen holder.
El watched his pens scatter across the desk like wounded soldiers.
His expression didn't change, but something behind his eyes died a little.
"...Sorry,"
Demi said, not sounding sorry at all.
"But more importantly—did you call her?"
"No."
Demi's face fell dramatically, like a child who'd just been told Christmas was canceled.
"NO?! El. EL. Why?! Was she not pretty enough? Was she too pretty? Did you have a sudden crisis about your own worthiness? Because we can work through that. I have charts."
El finally stopped typing.
He turned to face Demi with the same expression he used when HR explained new policies—polite, attentive, and completely hollow inside.
"I don't need charts."
"Everyone needs charts."
Demi pulled a folded piece of paper from his pocket and unfurled it with a flourish.
On it was a crudely drawn flowchart with boxes like "CALL HER" leading to "DATE" leading to "MARRIAGE" leading to "BABY DEMI JR." and an alternate path labeled "DON'T CALL HER" that just said "ETERNAL SADNESS AND INSTANT NOODLES."
El stared at it.
His eyebrow twitched—the closest he came to visible surprise.
"You made this last night?"
"I made it instead of sleeping. Because I care."
Demi pointed at the "ETERNAL SADNESS" box with theatrical urgency.
"This is you right now. Trapped in the bad ending. But it's not too late to switch timelines!"
El looked at the chart.
Then at Demi.
Then back to the chart.
"You have too much free time."
"I have exactly the right amount of free time. Now answer the question. Why haven't you called her?"
El considered his options.
He could tell the truth—that the card didn't actually have a phone number, that it had a cryptic warning and a symbol from his childhood, that he was possibly being haunted by a beautiful woman and a shadow demon.
Or he could say something vague and hope Demi dropped it.
He chose option three: deflect with minimal emotional investment.
"It's complicated."
"Complicated how? Did she turn out to be a spy? A secret princess? A spy princess? Because honestly, that would be amazing and I'd support it."
El's face remained perfectly neutral, but internally he noted that Demi's guesses were somehow both ridiculous and closer to the truth than they should be.
"Not the right time."
Demi stared at him for a long moment.
Then he sighed with the weary resignation of a man who'd had this conversation a thousand times.
"Fine. But I'm not giving up. I'm like a fungus. I grew in dark places and I'm very hard to remove."
El considered this.
"That's a concerning life goal."
"I thought so too."
Demi finally noticed the scattered pens and made a half-hearted attempt to gather them, pushing three in El's general direction before giving up.
"Anyway. Real work question. Do you have any snacks?"
"No."
"Liar. I can smell the granola bar in your bag."
El's expression didn't change, but he felt a flicker of annoyance.
He'd hidden that granola bar specifically to avoid this exact situation.
"Your nose is a liability."
"My nose is a survival tool."
Demi's eyes were wide and pleading, like a golden retriever who'd learned to manipulate humans.
El sighed—a quiet, controlled exhale that conveyed exactly 40% exasperation, 30% resignation, and 30% hidden affection.
He pulled out the granola bar and handed it over.
Demi snatched it like a starving animal and disappeared back over the cubicle wall, presumably to his own desk.
For approximately twenty minutes, there was peace.
------
9:23 AM
The cubicle head reappeared.
"El."
El didn't look up.
He was highlighting important sections of a document with the precision of a surgeon.
"What."
"New question. If you were a vegetable, what vegetable would you be?"
El's highlighting didn't pause.
"I'm busy."
"It's important for team bonding."
"We're not a team. We're two people who happen to sit near each other."
"Exactly. Bonding opportunity."
Demi hopped over the wall again, landing slightly better this time.
"I'd be a potato. Versatile. Reliable. Good in many situations. You?"
El finally stopped highlighting.
He looked at Demi with the expression of someone who had long ago accepted that this was his life now.
"A potato isn't a vegetable. It's starch."
"Don't do that. Don't bring facts into this."
"Why are you like this?"
"Genetic mutation. Answer the question."
El considered.
He thought about his life—quiet, orderly, content to sit in one place and not bother anyone.
"Fine. A carrot."
Demi's eyes widened with explosive delight.
"A CARROT?! Why?! Is it because you're long and orange? Wait no, you're not orange. Unless—"
He squinted at El's skin tone with theatrical suspicion.
"I've never asked. Are you orange in certain lighting?"
El's face remained perfectly blank.
"I'm not orange. And carrots are quiet. They just sit there. Doing carrot things. Not bothering anyone."
Demi considered this.
His expression shifted from manic to surprisingly thoughtful.
"That's actually sad. You're a sad carrot."
El nodded once, accepting this assessment with the same stoicism he applied to performance reviews.
"Thank you."
"You're welcome. Okay, next question—"
"DEMI."
The voice came from behind them, sharp as a blade.
They both turned.
Standing at the entrance to El's cubicle was Mira Castillo—Senior Marketing Associate, queen of deadlines, and the only person in the office who could make Demi shut up with a single glance.
She was in her early thirties, always impeccably dressed, and had a stare that could curdle milk from across the room.
Demi's mouth snapped shut so fast his teeth clicked.
"Demi," she repeated, her voice flat as old soda.
"Your desk is a biohazard. HR called. They're sending someone to inspect it at noon."
Demi's face went pale—genuinely pale, not theatrical.
"HR?! Why does HR care about my desk?!"
"Because something in there started growing, and Janet from accounting is allergic to whatever it is."
Demi's mouth opened and closed several times, like a fish having an existential crisis.
"That's... that's not possible. I eat everything before it can grow."
Mira's eyebrow arched with the precision of someone who had practiced this exact expression.
"There's a cup of something on your desk that has developed its own ecosystem. It has leaves now, Demi. Leaves."
Demi paled further.
His usual manic energy had been replaced by genuine horror.
"Okay. Okay. I'll handle it."
"You have until noon."
Mira's gaze shifted to El, and something in her expression softened.
Just slightly.
Barely noticeable.
But it was there—a tiny thaw in the permafrost.
"El. Good morning. Your quarterly reports are due Friday. Let me know if you need help with the formatting."
El met her gaze with his usual neutral expression.
Internally, he noted the shift in her tone—warmer than usual, though still professional.
"I won't need help, but thank you."
She nodded once, gave him the tiniest smile—the tiniest—and walked away.
El watched her go, then turned back to his computer.
His face revealed nothing.
Demi waited until she was out of earshot before exploding.
"DID YOU SEE THAT?!"
El continued typing.
"See what?"
"THAT! The smile! The 'let me know if you need help'! El, Mira just offered you assistance. Do you know how rare that is?! She once made an intern cry for asking where the printer was!"
El's typing didn't pause.
His voice remained flat.
"She's just being professional."
"Professional?! She called my desk a biohazard and threatened me with HR! That's professional. Offering to help you with formatting? That's something else."
Demi's eyes narrowed with the intensity of a conspiracy theorist spotting patterns.
"Wait. Has she always been nice to you?"
El's fingers hesitated for a fraction of a second—barely noticeable, but Demi caught it.
"She's not—she's just—"
He paused, actually considering the question.
"She's less terrifying to me than to everyone else."
"LESS TERRIFYING?! El, that's not a thing that happens! Mira Castillo doesn't do 'less terrifying'! She does 'frozen tundra' and occasionally 'arctic blast'! 'Less terrifying' is basically a love confession from her!"
El's eyebrow twitched—his version of an eye roll.
"You're exaggerating."
"I'M NOT EXAGGERATING! Oh my god."
Demi grabbed El's shoulders with both hands, his eyes wild with revelation.
"Oh my god. Mira Castillo has a crush on you."
El stared at him with the expression of someone watching a very energetic child explain why the moon is made of cheese.
"She does not."
"She smiled at you! She USED HER FACE to make a POSITIVE EXPRESSION in your DIRECTION! That's practically a marriage proposal from her!"
"It's not a crush. She's just used to me."
"Used to you? El, we've worked here for years. Janet from accounting is still 'used to' the coffee machine. She doesn't offer to help it with formatting."
Demi released El's shoulders and began pacing in the tiny cubicle space, nearly knocking over the succulent.
"This is huge. This is massive. You have TWO women interested in you now—mystery café girl AND the ice queen of marketing. Your stock is RISING."
El watched Demi pace with the detached interest of someone observing a nature documentary.
"There's no stock. There's no interest. There's just—"
"Shh."
Demi held up a hand, freezing mid-pace.
"Let me have this. My life is empty and I live vicariously through you."
El opened his mouth to argue, but Demi was already climbing back over the cubicle wall, presumably to confront his biologically active beverage situation.
El turned back to his computer.
His expression didn't change, but somewhere beneath the surface, a tiny part of him wondered if Demi might be slightly less wrong than usual.
-----
11:47 AM
The cubicle head appeared again.
"EL."
El didn't look up.
He was in the middle of a complex spreadsheet, his face illuminated by the glow of perfectly organized data.
"What."
"Emergency."
El's fingers paused over the keyboard.
He turned to face Demi with the same expression he used for unexpected meetings—calm, attentive, and prepared for anything.
"What happened?"
Demi's face was pale—not theatrically pale, but genuinely haunted.
"I cleaned my desk."
El waited.
When no further information came, he was prompted:
"...Okay?"
"I found things, El. Things."
Demi shuddered—a full-body tremor that made his tie wobble.
"There was a banana. From 2022. It was... it had achieved sentience. I think it looked at me."
El processed this information with the same neutrality he applied to budget reports.
His expression didn't change.
"You're having an existential crisis over old fruit."
"I'M HAVING AN EXISTENTIAL CRISIS OVER THE PASSAGE OF TIME AND MY OWN MORTALITY, AND ALSO THE BANANA. IT WAS BROWN, EL. BROWN IN WAYS I DIDN'T KNOW WERE POSSIBLE."
El considered this.
"Brown is within the spectrum of expected banana colors."
"NOT LIKE THIS! NOT LIKE THIS!"
Demi slumped against the cubicle wall, sliding down until he was sitting on the floor, knees drawn up, looking remarkably like a deflated balloon.
"I need to sit down. No, I'm already sitting. I need to lie down. In a field. Far away from bananas."
El looked at his friend—genuinely looked at him, not just the usual surface chaos.
Behind the theatrics, there was real distress.
El's voice softened by approximately 15%, which for him was practically sobbing.
"Demi—"
"Tell me about your love life."
Demi's voice was muffled because he'd buried his face in his knees.
"Distract me."
El blinked.
"That's your distraction?"
"It's better than thinking about the banana. The banana had eyes, El. I swear."
El sighed—a quiet exhale that carried the weight of six years of friendship and approximately four thousand similar conversations.
"There's nothing to tell."
Demi lifted his head just enough to peer at El with one eye.
"There's always something to tell. Did you think about calling her? Even for a second?"
El hesitated.
He'd thought about Aletheia all morning.
The dream version.
The café version.
The impossible, terrifying, beautiful mystery of her.
His face remained neutral, but his fingers tightened slightly on the edge of his desk.
"...Maybe."
"MAYBE?!"
Demi scrambled up so fast he nearly fell over, his existential crisis momentarily forgotten.
"That's more than nothing! That's progress! That's a crack in the armor! That's—"
"It's not a confirmation."
"But it's not a denial! El, do you know how long I've waited for you to say 'maybe' about a woman? YEARS. You've said 'no' so many times I thought 'no' was your only setting. 'Maybe' is a whole new gear!"
El's eyebrow twitched.
"I have multiple gears."
"Name one."
"Professional indifference."
"That's not a gear, that's your entire transmission."
Demi was fully energized now, pacing again, his earlier trauma about the banana completely abandoned.
"Okay. New plan. You don't have to call her today. But tomorrow? You call. Or text. Or send a strongly worded letter via owl. I don't care. Just do something."
El watched him pace.
"Why do you care so much?"
Demi paused.
For a moment, his usual manic energy flickered, revealing something softer underneath—something genuine.
"Because you've been sad for a long time, El. And I've watched. And I can't fix sadness with jokes forever."
He shrugged, already retreating back into his usual armor.
"Also I'm bored and your romantic life is my only entertainment. So. You know. Selfish reasons."
El looked at his best friend—this chaotic, loud, impossible person who'd face-planted into his life six years ago and refused to leave.
Something warm flickered in his chest, though his face showed nothing.
"I'll think about it."
"That's all I ask."
Demi pointed at him with theatrical intensity.
"Think loudly. I'll hear it from my desk."
He disappeared again.
El turned back to his computer.
The quarterly reports glowed on his screen, waiting to be formatted.
Normal.
Boring.
Safe.
But his mind kept drifting back to the card in his pocket.
The words on the back.
The symbol.
The dream.
Sweet dreams, El.
How did she know?
And more importantly—why did part of him hope she'd visit again tonight?
-------
12:30 PM – LUNCH BREAK
The break room was small but functional—a microwave that ran on vibes rather than actual electricity, a coffee machine that hadn't been cleaned since the Obama administration, and a fridge that everyone knew not to open unless they wanted to smell regret.
El was heating up his sad leftovers, standing with his back straight and his expression neutral, when the door opened.
Mira walked in.
She paused when she saw him—just a fraction of a second—then continued to the coffee machine with her usual measured grace.
She poured herself a cup of the questionable liquid, added exactly one sugar (never two, never zero—El had noticed this detail with the same quiet attention he gave to spreadsheet patterns), and turned to face him.
"Lunch rush is almost over," she said.
Her voice was calm, professional, but lacking the sharp edge she used with everyone else.
"You'll have the microwave to yourself soon."
El nodded once.
"I'm almost done. You can have it if you need it."
She nodded back. Then, after a moment:
"How are the reports coming?"
"Fine. Almost finished, actually."
"You work fast."
She took a sip of her coffee, made a face (the coffee was always terrible, everyone made a face), and set it down.
"Most people struggle with quarterly formatting. You never do."
El considered this.
"It's just patterns. Once you see them, it's easy."
She looked at him.
That same soft look from earlier—like she was seeing something beneath the surface.
"You notice patterns."
"Don't you?"
A tiny smile—barely there, but real.
"Sometimes. Not always."
She paused, and something flickered in her eyes.
"I noticed you've been distracted today. More than usual."
El's expression remained perfectly neutral, but his stomach tightened slightly.
"Just tired. Bad sleep."
"Mm."
She didn't push, which he appreciated.
Instead, she picked up her coffee and moved toward the door.
Before leaving, she glanced back.
"If you ever need to talk. About anything. My door's open."
Then she was gone.
El stood there, leftovers forgotten, processing the interaction with the same careful attention he gave to everything.
The warmth in her voice.
The offer—genuine, not just professional courtesy.
The way she'd looked at him.
You notice patterns.
He noticed this one too.
His phone buzzed.
DEMI: I SAW THAT. I WAS WATCHING FROM THE HALLWAY. THAT WAS NOT A PROFESSIONAL INTERACTION. THAT WAS A MOMENT. YOU HAD A MOMENT WITH MIRA CASTILLO.
El's face remained blank, but he felt a flicker of annoyance.
Of course Demi was watching.
DEMI: TWO WOMEN, EL. TWO. YOUR STOCK IS NOW A BLUE-CHIP INVESTMENT.
DEMI: ALSO YOUR LEFTOVERS ARE BURNING. THE MICROWAVE IS SMOKING. YOU MIGHT WANT TO HANDLE THAT.
El looked up.
Gray smoke was indeed billowing from the microwave.
He sighed—a quiet, controlled exhale that conveyed exactly 60% resignation, 30% exasperation, and 10% dark amusement at the universe's timing.
Some days, the universe really had it out for him.
----
5:45 PM – QUITTING TIME
The office was emptying out, the fluorescent lights humming their usual melancholy tune.
El packed his bag slowly, giving his desk one last alignment check before leaving.
Pens in place.
Papers stacked.
Succulent properly positioned.
Demi appeared beside him, miraculously using the actual aisle instead of climbing the wall.
"Walk home together?"
El zipped his bag with mechanical precision.
"Sure."
They moved through the quiet office, past empty cubicles and dark monitors.
At the elevator, Demi leaned against the wall and stretched like a cat.
"Today was weird."
El pressed the elevator button.
"Today was Tuesday."
"Exactly. Tuesdays are always weird."
Demi yawned, then immediately perked up.
"But seriously. Mira. The card. The dream girl. You're living in a rom-com and you don't even realize it."
El stepped into the elevator, his expression unchanged.
"It's not a rom-com."
"It's absolutely a rom-com. You're the oblivious protagonist. I'm the hilarious best friend. Mira's the secret admirer. Mystery café girl is the wild card."
Demi counted on his fingers, then gasped.
"OH! And the girl from your dreams! The one you're always moony about in the morning! That's three, El! THREE women in your orbit!"
El's eyebrow twitched—barely perceptible, but Demi caught it.
"I'm not moony."
"You're SO moony. Every morning after you have that dream, you walk around with this look—"
Demi demonstrated by going cross-eyed and slack-jawed.
"Like you've seen heaven and now reality is just disappointing."
El's face remained neutral, but something flickered behind his eyes.
"That's not—"
"It IS. And now you have REAL women interested in you. Mira, who could freeze water with her stare but melts slightly for you.
Mystery café girl, who gave you a card and probably owns a yacht. And dream girl, who lives in your head rent-free and makes you look like a lovesick puppy every morning."
The elevator dinged.
They stepped out into the lobby.
"You're forgetting the horror elements,"
El said quietly—so quietly that someone else might have missed it.
"The symbol. The playground. The thing that's been watching me for twenty years."
Demi's smile faded.
For a moment, he looked almost serious—the energy draining, replaced by something genuine.
"Yeah. I didn't forget."
He bumped El's shoulder gently.
"But whatever that is? You don't have to face it alone. That's also part of the genre, right? The best friend stays until the end."
El looked at him.
Really looked.
At this chaotic, loud, impossible person who'd chosen him six years ago and never stopped choosing him.
Something warm settled in his chest—small, but real.
"Even if the end is weird?"
"Especially if the end is weird. Weird is my brand."
Demi grinned, the seriousness evaporated as quickly as it had appeared.
"Now. Important question. Are we getting coffee tomorrow? Because if so, I need to emotionally prepare for the possibility of seeing your mystery woman again. I'll need to look cool. Impressive. Mysterious myself."
El's face remained blank.
"You? Mysterious?"
"I can be mysterious. I'll just... not talk. For like five minutes. It'll be great."
El considered this with the same attention he gave to impossible deadlines.
"You haven't gone five minutes without talking since 2020."
"That's not true. I was asleep for eight hours last night."
"Dream talking doesn't count."
Demi gasped in a mock offense, clutching his chest like a Victorian heroine.
"How do you know I talk in my dreams?! Are you spying on me?! That's a violation of best friend code section 4, paragraph B!"
El's eyebrow twitched—his version of amusement.
"There's a code?"
"There's ALWAYS a code. I just haven't written it down yet."
They stepped out of the building into the cool evening air.
The city hummed around them—cars, people, the distant wail of a siren.
Normal.
Ordinary.
Safe.
But as they parted ways at the corner, El couldn't shake the feeling that something was watching.
He turned.
Looked back at the building.
For just a second, he thought he saw a figure in a 9th floor window.
Then it was gone.
Stop looking for the exit.
El shoved his hands in his pockets and walked faster.
-----
EL'S APARTMENT – 9:47 PM
The routine was automatic now.
Clothes off.
Gray t-shirt on.
Oreo fed (again, despite her dramatic claims of starvation).
Frozen burrito microwaved.
Couch.
Book.
But tonight, El couldn't focus on Awakening.
The words blurred together, meaningless, as his mind kept circling back to the same questions.
Who was Aletheia?
Both versions—the sharp café woman and the soft dream one?
Why did she—they—know about the symbol?
And what did any of it have to do with him?
Oreo jumped onto his chest, kneaded his stomach with tiny needle paws, and curled into a purring ball.
El looked down at her.
"You're the only normal thing in my life."
Oreo purred louder, which meant either agreement or complete indifference.
With cats, it was impossible to tell.
He set the book aside.
Closed his eyes.
Sleep took him gently, like a wave pulling out to sea.
------
THE DREAM
The garden materialized around him like a photograph developing in slow motion.
First came the colors—impossible blooms in shades that didn't exist in waking life.
Then the sounds—the gentle bubble of the starlight fountain, the distant song of birds that had never known cages.
Then the smells—jasmine and rain and something sweeter, something that made his chest ache with a longing he couldn't name.
El stood still, taking it in.
The familiar sky-touching tree.
The empty swing.
The grass that felt more real than any ground he'd ever walked on.
But something was different.
The air felt charged.
Expectant.
Like the garden itself was holding its breath.
And then he saw her.
She sat on a blanket beneath the golden-fruited tree, her legs tucked beneath her, her dark hair spilling over her shoulders like ink in water.
She wasn't Aletheia—not the sharp café version, not the soft dream version he'd grown used to.
She was someone else entirely.
And yet, somehow, she was familiar.
El's feet wouldn't move.
His heart—that usually steady, controlled organ—began to beat with a rhythm that felt dangerously close to recognition.
She looked up.
Their eyes met.
And the world tilted slightly, like a painting being adjusted on a wall.
"There you are," she said softly.
Her voice was velvet with a hidden edge—warm, but with something underneath.
Something that made his skin prickle with awareness.
El's brow furrowed slightly—the only crack in his stoic mask.
"Do I know you?"
She smiled.
It was a dangerous smile.
Not malicious, but knowing.
Like she was in on a joke he hadn't been told yet.
"That's a complicated question."
El's feet finally decided to work.
He walked toward her slowly, carefully, the way he approached anything unfamiliar—with quiet observation and minimal emotional investment.
She watched him approach, her eyes tracking his movements with an intensity that made him feel like a specimen under glass.
"You've been here before," she said.
It wasn't a question.
"Many times."
"With her."
Still not a question.
"The other one. The one who looks like the café woman but isn't."
El stopped a few feet from the blanket.
His expression remained neutral, but something tightened in his chest.
"How do you know about that?"
She patted the blanket beside her.
"Sit. You'll get a cramp standing like that."
El didn't move.
"I'd rather stand."
"Suit yourself."
She shrugged, completely unbothered.
"But you're going to ruin the mood. Very un-romantic of you."
El's eyebrow twitched.
"Is this supposed to be romantic?"
"Eventually."
She grinned—a flash of teeth, bright and teasing.
"But first, we have to get through the awkward 'do I know you' phase. And you're making it extra awkward by standing there like a security guard at a mall."
Despite himself, El felt the corner of his mouth twitch.
Just slightly.
Barely noticeable.
But she noticed.
"Ah! There it is. The almost-smile. I've heard about those."
She leaned forward with obvious delight.
"Demi talks about them constantly. 'El almost smiled today. It was a religious experience.'"
El's face snapped back to neutral.
"You know Demi?"
"I know a lot of things."
She patted the blanket again.
"Sit. I promise I won't bite. Unless you're into that, in which case we should probably have a conversation about boundaries first."
El stared at her.
She stared back, utterly unrepentant.
"You're strange," he said flatly.
"I'm delightful. There's a difference."
She tilted her head, and a lock of dark hair fell across her face.
She tucked it behind her ear with a grace that felt practiced—but not in a bad way.
In a way that made him want to keep watching.
"Now sit down, El. We have things to discuss, and my neck is getting tired from looking up at you."
El considered his options.
He could walk away.
Explore the garden alone.
Wait for the dream to shift into something more familiar.
But something about her made him stay.
He sat.
Not close enough to touch, but close enough to see the details he'd missed from standing—the tiny mole near her left eye, the way her fingers played with the edge of the blanket, the spark of something almost like recognition in her gaze.
"Good." She smiled, and this time it was softer. Genuine.
"See? Compromise. Very healthy relationship behavior."
"We don't have a relationship."
"Yet."
The word hung in the air between them, playful and weighted at the same time.
"So. Question number one: Do you remember me?"
El studied her face.
The shape of her jaw.
The curve of her lips.
The way her eyes held his without flinching.
Something stirred in the back of his mind.
A memory.
A feeling.
A half-formed image that dissolved when he tried to grasp it.
"No," he said honestly.
"Should I?"
She considered this. Her expression flickered—just for a moment—with something that might have been sadness.
Or disappointment. Or both.
Then it was gone, replaced by that same teasing smile.
"Should you? Maybe. Do you? Apparently not." She shrugged.
"Brains are weird. Dreams are weirder. I'm not offended."
El's brow furrowed.
"That's not really an answer."
"It's the only answer I have right now."
She leaned back on her hands, looking up at the impossible sky.
"You're trying to remember something that hasn't happened yet. Or maybe it already happened and you forgot. Or maybe it happened in a different way entirely."
She glanced at him sideways.
"Time is weird here."
"In here?"
"The dream."
She gestured vaguely at the garden.
"This place. It doesn't follow the same rules as out there."
She pointed toward nothing, presumably indicating the real world.
"Out there, everything is linear. Cause and effect. Input and output. But here?" She grinned.
"In here, the effect can come before the cause. The output can happen without the input. It's chaos. Beautiful, terrifying chaos."
El processed this.
His expression remained neutral, but his mind was racing.
"You're saying this place—this dream—doesn't follow normal rules?"
"I'm saying this place follows different rules."
She sat up, turning to face him fully.
"Rules you haven't learned yet. Rules I'm not sure you're ready to learn."
"Then why are you here?"
She smiled—a real smile, warm and slightly sad.
"Because someone has to start teaching you."
El's heart did something complicated.
He ignored it.
"And the other one? The one who looks like Aletheia?"
"She's part of it too."
The woman's expression flickered again—that same mix of sadness and knowing.
"We all are. Different pieces of the same puzzle."
"What puzzle?"
She leaned forward, close enough that he could smell her—jasmine and something sweeter, something that made his chest ache.
"You," she whispered.
"You're the puzzle, El. You always have been."
El's breath caught.
His mask slipped—just for a second—revealing something raw and vulnerable beneath.
"I don't understand."
"I know."
She reached out and touched his face.
Her fingers were warm—impossibly warm—and the contact sent a shiver through him that had nothing to do with cold.
"That's okay. You will. Eventually."
"When?"
She laughed—a bright, clear sound that seemed to make the garden glow brighter.
"Impatient. I like it."
She dropped her hand, but the warmth lingered on his skin.
"Soon. Not tonight. But soon."
El wanted to push.
To demand answers.
To understand.
So instead, he asked:
"What should I call you?"
She tilted her head, considering.
Then she smiled—that dangerous, delightful, knowing smile.
"Call me Kaye."
The name landed in his chest like a stone in still water.
Kaye.
It felt right.
Felt important.
Felt like something he should remember.
"Kaye," he repeated, testing the weight of it.
She beamed.
"See? You're already learning."
El's eyebrow twitched—his version of a smile.
"I haven't learned anything."
"You learned my name. That's a start."
She leaned back again, looking satisfied.
"Rome wasn't built in a day.