He wakes before the alarm. The streetlight casts stripes across the ceiling, slicing the room into sharp, uneven shadows. He lies still, listening to the familiar hum of the city, trying to determine if it's morning or if the night has simply refused to end. The smell of coffee and rain mingles with something he can't name—something heavier, like the residue of old regrets.
She sits in the chair by the window. Her legs dangle, too small for the world, and she looks at him with the same crooked smile she had back then, the one that made him feel both invincible and afraid.
"You sleep too much," she says.
"I never sleep," he replies, though he wonders if he means it, or if sleep has always just been another form of avoidance.
She shrugs, eyes sharp, almost accusatory. "Then you just dream with your eyes open."
He should know better than to answer her. He should close his eyes and pretend she isn't real. But it's hard to resist the pull of someone who embodies everything he can't admit to himself.
Outside, the rain begins. She walks beside him, arms outstretched, catching drops like they are fragments of a world he has stopped noticing. People pass, blind to her, but he no longer questions it. Perhaps some part of him always knew she was a mirror—reflecting back the parts of himself he refuses to confront.
"Do you remember the treehouse?" she asks. "When you said you could hear the rain singing?"
He closes his eyes. Rain drums on the roof, a rhythm both familiar and alien. He sees her across from him, braids wet, grin wide and effortless, and feels the weight of memory pressing into his chest.
"Listen," she says. "It's singing to us."
"You're crazy," he laughs, but it's hollow. The laughter doesn't reach his eyes.
"Maybe," she says softly, "but so are you."
When he opens them, they're back on the sidewalk. The world has shifted again, as it always does. He clings to fragments of her, to her voice, to the moments he never held properly.
Lunch is an act of endurance. He eats mechanically, the cafeteria sounds hollow, colleagues' words floating past like they exist in another dimension. He sees her outside the window, pressed against the glass, and feels the old promises tighten around his ribs.
"You promised you'd stay," she whispers, barely audible.
He drops his fork. "What did you say?" But no one answers. And perhaps the answer was never meant to come from anyone else.
Evening drifts in like a slow tide. She sits on the couch, one of his shirts hanging loosely over her shoulders.
"You need to go there," she says.
"No," he says, but the refusal tastes like ash in his mouth.
"You owe me that," she insists.
He looks away, ashamed. "I don't owe you anything."
She smiles, quietly sad. "That's what you said that day too."
The treehouse waits in memory and in the dark. He stands at its base, hesitant. She is there, patient and insistent, a reflection of every choice he left unmade.
"Come on," she says. "Just one more time."
He shakes his head. "I need to go home."
She steps closer. He feels the pull of every unsaid word, every broken promise, every fragment of guilt he has carried for a decade. Something slips. A branch snaps. Her grip loosens—and he wakes to the sound of his own racing heart.
At 3 a.m., he moves through the sleeping city, the path muddy and familiar. The treehouse is fractured, splintered, yet it feels alive, charged with the weight of memory and expectation. He kneels at the base, feeling the cold, damp soil under his fingers.
A stone rises from the ground, worn but legible. Her name, carved when she was ten. His chest tightens. He closes his eyes and lets the years fall away, every failure, every hesitation, every moment he should have been there.
"Why do you keep coming back?" he asks, though he knows the answer.
"Because you won't let me go," she says. And it isn't accusation. It is truth.
She sits beside him. The wind rustles leaves, carrying the scent of rain and earth, and slowly, she fades—not like smoke, but like the edges of a dream dissolving under the harsh light of reality.
"I'm tired," he admits.
"Then sleep," she whispers. "But wake up next time."
He opens his eyes. The tree is empty. The rain falls, relentless, a reminder that time does not pause for guilt.
He rises. The sky is brightening. Each step home feels heavier, yet somehow real. He walks carrying the weight of memory, grief, and redemption—not as a burden, but as the proof that he is still alive, still capable of feeling, still capable of choosing differently.