Archive of Our Own ^beta

A man woke up in his apartment. He knew it was his because he made it.

It was that simple.

Perhaps, it was more fitting to say that he regained consciousness: beings like him didn't sleep, therefore, had nothing to wake up from. He regained consciousness, unsure of what had occurred while he was unconscious, or even before that. It was shoved so far away to the corners of his mind that he couldn't bring himself to care—he'd deal with it later, there was no hurry. All time in the world laid at his fingertips, eternity for him to spend however he liked, and several minutes of brief exploration couldn't hurt.

He sat up and looked around, spotting pieces of furniture here and there: a bedside drawer, a grey swivel chair, a stain oak desk. There were book shelves nailed to the walls, but they were strangely empty. In fact, most of the room lacked personality—no family pictures, no paintings, no personal belongings messily scattered around or arranged in a careful manner. The blue carpet on the floor was perfectly clean, the furniture had a just-bought shine to it, the wallpaper smelled of fresh glue (he couldn't see the pattern on it clearly, seemingly a bug he forgot to fix). To anyone else, it would appear like he just moved in. To him, though... An unfinished project, did he guess right? Wonderful work, just you look, but clearly, he forgot to add some details. A weight was pressing lightly onto his legs, a white duvet covering a half of his body. He smiled, proud of the effort he must have applied to create something like this. He'd really outdone himself—a duvet wasn't an important detail in the grand scheme of things, but it was just so soft looking and realistic that he could touch it, he could grab it and squeeze it and-

He could touch it. Right. Right.

So... a man woke up in his apartment. He was the man, who woke up in the apartment. He was quite literally, undoubtedly inside the apartment.

'Now, that's just silly, Stanley. I can say with outmost certainty that this was built for you, not me, so what in the world am I doing here, touching a duvet with my actual fingers, when you-' he muttered quietly, trying to leave the bed, but his monologue got rudely interrupted when one of his legs caught in the sheets as another one reached the floor; he fell ungracefully, hitting his chin in the process with an earsplitting clank. He didn't welcome the sudden, expanding pressure in his jaw, a sensation so strong it made him tear up.

Now he needed to reset the camera angle, but it proved to be difficult with one of his appendages captured by a piece of a flawlessly modelled fabric.

He was equipped with a set of arms, surely he could do it manually? But why did he have to?

For a second there, he felt so riled up that he couldn't utter a single word. Then it snowballed down his tongue:

'Oh, you've done it now! You broke the bloody game! The game, Stanley! My masterpiece, my delicate craft, the work of my life,' he pulled his leg out and pushed himself off the ground, not paying any mind to how easy the action turned out to be, 'Can you imagine the diligence I've applied to make it into what it is; hours upon hours of labour, weeks upon weeks of mapping out the building, the years I've spent leading my story up to absolute perfection? And you ruin it, just like that? Was it worth nothing to you? You think you're so smart and capable, don't you? Ohhh, let's trap the guy in charge, see how he likes it! Maybe he'll deliver some new, thrilling lines of dialogue!' his voice got higher, a mocking follow-up to the bubbling anger inside.

Balled up fists, heaving chest, wide eyes. It was't an act, the rage that fueled him. It wasn't planned, or perfectly timed.

No one heard him, and it died out. He let out a sigh of quiet surrender. He stood there—a cup that used to be full but was now ruthlessly emptied out, dropped down on the floor and maybe even stepped on for good measure—and thought how burdening it felt to be left on his own.

'You aren't here, are you?' he noted sullenly.

The silence was different. It wasn't a statement, wasn't backed up by actions.

It didn't belong to Stanley. Stanley wielded silence like a fine sword, sharpened it until the meaning of it cut right through; a perfect contrast to his own set of skills, one to cherish and respect.

This chaos he was hearing had nothing to do with it. Sounds of the street below, the buzz of electricity, the flapping of pigeon wings. What was so catchy about it? Nothing. Disgraceful disorganisation.

He circled the room, not muttering to himself anymore, and spotted a note on his desk which read find him in red ink. Bingo! He really wasn't asleep before! He had to be doing something until- until-

A man woke up in his apartment. He knew it was his: he bought it, he paid the bills. Other people took their part in its creation—plenty of people.

They built the walls. Manufactured the furniture. Placed the glass inside the window frames. He knew where the bedroom was, where the kitchen was, knew the way to the bathroom. 

He understood it now: he simply held the wrong assumptions from the beginning.

It wasn't his fault that the line between fantasy and reality was so misleading.

_

He knew he didn't belong; he just didn't know why.

It wasn't hard to notice, the fact that he left no traces of his own existence anywhere. It wasn't hard to notice because the cupboards in his kitchen were empty and most of his clothes was packaged and sealed in vacuum and it all seemed like a huge joke, too absurd to actually be true; everyone has a story, you see, everyone has a place in this world, everyone is either miserable or happy or drifting through and he wasn't any of that (if he was, well, he did a very poor job).

So he lived in the now, because the now was all he had, because question nothing it is the best rule to live by, old and covered in dust, one of his own making, too, one he remembered well enough, thank god for that.

He lived in the now, while it was still possible.

_

The job in a local bookshop came with its perks. Sure, rearranging books and changing price tags was boring, the customers could be really rude or ignore him when he offered assistance, and the pay wasn't that good at all, but some of the people that came in actually listened to what he had to say. Their attention brought him the kind of energy that he couldn't get from coffee breaks. Euphoric, he noticed how the rusty gears in his head turned a bit faster with each new sentence about the thrill he felt when he went through the 'Tell-tale Heart' or 'Crime and Punishment'. Then he would bring up the benefits of getting the books in high-quality bindings and therefore, for a higher price (because he was still doing his job, of course), and people would nod, and consider their options, and agree, and he'd lead them to the right shelf, smiling to himself, fixing his sleeves with jittery movements because he was just so happy, for a moment, that someone heard him, at last. 

What didn't fail to amuse him was the difficulty of recalling a single moment when he intentionally picked up a book. There had been a scarce amount of things he could clearly recall, and this part, too, completely evaded him. It seemed like he just knew, as if his mind was a hard drive and he kept certain files inside for no particular reason.

The job didn't satisfy him enough. When he realised it, it got harder to ignore. If he stayed put, he'd probably have a chance of leading a calmer life, but he didn't feel concerned about it, about the change that was soon to follow, no, on the contrary, he craved change. Craved for it to finally come, to burst his bubble, to shake him up real good, to have something that wasn't lonely evenings by the register, staring out the automatic glass doors, into the dark of the street and wondering if any of it was ironic or not, if it was supposed to be so difficult, if a creature without substance will ever dissolve with the chilly air as easy as the smell of rain.

He also needed the extra money: fancy suits didn't grow on trees (moreover, one of his mysteriously disappeared), and he wanted to purchase a few household items to liven up the space he occupied.

So when he saw an advert for a part-time job at a radio station, he only spent several seconds contemplating whether he was going to go through with it. The stock picture of a microphone—rather poorly printed—sealed the deal for him.

He wondered how many people would hear him talk, and a feeling akin to hope settled in his heart.

_

He studied his reflection in the mirror of a public restroom, hands on the glistening white of the sink; it stood out as a puzzle to solve—does this face belong to me? Crows feet and faint forehead lines, raised eyebrows and brown irises fading into black, the face of a man who has no control over his expressions; is it really mine or did I rip it off somebody, and if I did, do they know about it? 

He scowled and took off his glasses—nothing of interest now, just a silhouette, doubling at the edges. A sight easier to handle by far.

_

On his first day at the radio station, before he left the apartment, he realised that he didn't know how to tie a tie.

Usually, he wore simpler clothes, the dress code at the bookshop wasn't strict, but he really did hate it and he wanted to look sharp for his interview. He wasn't a fast learner; couldn't figure out how to use his fingers, tied the knots in the wrong places, knocked something over with his elbow in the process.

Turns out, no one cares how you look on the job if you're only sticking around for a few hours to pre-record whatever it is they're going to stick in the morning broadcast before the big, more important programmes start up.

He was mildly disappointed by the task he was given to perform—following a script he didn't write, reading out the stories he had nothing to do with, with a constricting time limit on top of it, but then again, he had no qualifications for anything bigger, it was only part-time and really, what did he expect? Who on earth would let him get on a hot talk show or a news report if he'd never done this before? And who on earth would let him do his own thing without disrupting his creative flow or limiting him to two hours per episode? Seriously, two hours? He wasn't that busy, he could do more! And he didn't know what it was exactly that he wanted to do so much, but if they let him, he'd find out!

But he chose to ignore his disappointment in favour of the praise he received for his narrating skills, of the microphone in front of him that he couldn't wait to use; of the fact that his words had a direction, at last, he was the leading man, he was the guide, he would show his listeners a real adventure, something he couldn't even show himself, he would show them, no matter, they'd see soon enough.

He was heard.

He existed.

It wasn't a dream.

But to find one's purpose is to catch a weft of smoke with your hands; try to keep it in place, and you will be greatly disappointed.

_

Every morning another person's name touched his lips as he struggled to remember his own; a ghost of a touch, unsettling and familiar all the same.

Stanley, he muttered under his breath as he blinked awake.

Stanley, listen to me, he groaned and clutched his pillow and trembled, ever so slightly, from the fear of the unknown, of the uncertain, because they had to do it, they were so so close now, and he was leading him to it, no going back, no second thoughts, Stanley, I know you're having some, believe me, I am, too, but we will go through this, you and me, the way it's always been. He sat up abruptly, turned his head around: same room, same bed, same book shelves, now occupied; same stuffy feeling of having nowhere to go, of having no one to tell this particular story to, of being forgotten by accident, like a child who let go of their mother's hand in a crowded supermarket. In those dreams, he was so important, so big, spreading everywhere, closing and opening doors without having to touch one, running through passageways and hallways as if they were veins and he was the bloodstream, and here? A goldfish had more freedom and autonomy than him, it seemed.

But the day went on, he had things to do, it was pointless to dread. He figured his life out bit by bit while in the shower or brushing his teeth or violently knocking on the coffee machine so it would start up already: yesterday was Tuesday, I recorded another piece of narration before it aired, read through my emails (fan mail, at the tip of his tongue) to brighten up the mood, and afterwards I went to that lovely restaurant on the corner of the street where they serve delicious pasta, remember, the place with the round, dim lights overhead?

And when he was done, he was closer to being whole, no broken seams or missing pieces to replace.

_

He was riding a train back home in the evening, and an older woman who took the seat in front of him was glaring at him venomously. Light eyebrows drawn together, dusted white eyelashes framing her seagull eyes; hands on her knees; she sat there unmoving as the train rocked slightly side to side, and he gulped. Had he seen her before? Surely he would remember her face, if he had? Did he offend her somehow? Maybe she was thinking about deeply unpleasant things, and he was unfortunate enough to be in front of her as she stared off into space. Yes, that must've been the case.

Then she stood up, still staring him down, and he couldn't help but shudder.

'So you've got me, and you've got your favourite pet, couldn't live without him, could you?' she spat out loud enough for him to pick it up, moving closer. 'But what about her?  What about them all? Did you just forget about them? Or maybe you didn't care? Maybe they mattered that little to you?'

Her hand reached out, he felt her grab his tie and gasped when she gave it a harsh tug. People nearby exchanged whispers—static to his ears, while he couldn't even move, or think, or reply.

Little droplets of sorrow, here and there, falling down slowly, landing softly, like morning dew; little droplets of sorrow, filling the empty spaces inside of him, the gaps between the lines, between the paragraphs where no action took place; waves of sorrow, wearing down on him the way the sea wears down on pebbles.

His knees began to tremble, and wetness landed on his cheek. He shook his head. He didn't know what she was talking about, he just wanted her gone, wanted to be left alone, to question nothing, it was so easy, why did she have to do this now, of all times? What did she hope to achieve?

'Do you have any idea about what you've done?' the woman's voice broke but didn't waver, and her grip on his tie tightened. 'You don't deserve to be here.'

'Miss-' someone had touched her shoulder, startling her, and she let go.

'Excuse me.'

And the train stopped moving, and the doors opened, and the woman with seagull eyes brushed her knuckles against her cheek, even though it was dry. She left in the last seconds before the doors closed again.

Another passenger asked him if he was alright, if he knew her, a guy with a baseball cap who couldn't be older than eighteen—he nodded politely and thanked him.

No, he didn't know her, not a chance, but he did agree with her. He didn't deserve to be here, not if he's done something so terrible it came back to haunt him.

_

The production manager—Larry—waved at him through the glass of the radio booth, signaling him that they were done for the day.

He stopped the recording, took off his headphones and headed out, already missing the sight of the technical equipment surrounding his desk. Learning how to work with it was pleasant, and surprisingly easier than he expected. He didn't need to do a lot with it, not for his own pieces, but simply having it at his disposal for a certain period of time was already enough to liven him up a bit. It had very little to do with the exciting prospect of reading another book and a lot to do with the fact that he could, if he wanted, blast the weather report intro (or some other disgusting sound) full volume at any point of time during his recording just for the sake of it. Now, he wasn't going live, so the whole purpose of doing this was questionable at best, since he'd be mostly be torturing whoever overlooked his work, but knowing that he had that power, to press whichever damn button he liked and twist the story into something a bit more exciting? De-light-ful! Maybe he should have trained as the board operator instead.

'Why don't you introduce yourself?' Larry asked, interrupting that particular train of thought.

He didn't like where this was going.

'What do you mean?' he smiled politely and hoped it looked forced enough to show his displeasure. 'I don't see how that would be necessary, since you already know who I am.'

'I meant, to the listeners. You're sort of supposed to introduce yourself in the beginning, you know that, right? It's right there in the script.'

'I don't like my name.' he admitted reluctantly.

Maybe honesty will disarm him then.

'What?' the man raised his eyebrows, and a twinge of annoyance crawled up his neck, a hot, itchy thing.

Guess not.

He really, really wanted to leave now. He didn't enjoy it when people stuck their nose into his business.

'If you don't like your name so much, why don't you just change it? It can be done.' Larry sighed. 'Look, you don't want to be remembered as that random guy from the radio station, do you? It's what it's for. It's also the way to give you credit, for the work you're doing, you know?'

Oh dear, he really could not give less of a damn. What was so important about his name, anyway? Who cared about credit? He wasn't doing much, but he was getting paid for it, that's all that mattered. Getting his name out there for everyone to hear wasn't going to change a single thing about the fact that he was still disappointed and a little bit frustrated. His witty commentary had been turned into outtakes, into 'you can't say this, you're running out of time', and when it wasn't cut out it was so insignificant that no one would remember it anyway. It was upsetting at best, insulting at worst, and there was nothing he could do about it, not if he wanted to stay. 

'I haven't found anything suitable yet.' 

'At all?'

'At all.' he shrugged. 'I don't need credit, alright? I'm sure that people who care won't find it difficult to recognize me by my voice. Can we just skip this part, please?' 

Eventually, the man agreed. The scrutiny directed at him was unwelcome—he found himself wishing he could strangle someone right then and there, simply for putting him into that position where he had to explain something so basic even a three year old would get it. There was no name good enough, was that so hard to understand? A combination of mindless noises that carried no real meaning, that's what names really were to him: Robert, Frederick, Fabian, Thomas, no name to describe him for who he was in the most straightforward way possible, no name that let everyone know what it was that he did, what made him whole, what made him himself. And here's the problem: he didn't know. When it came down to it, he didn't know a single thing about himself, so he'd rather be a nameless presence, a voice, a body, hand gestures and words, and if it bothered anyone, well, it wasn't his problem to solve.

He huffed and left the studio and got down the elevator, and he was about to exit the building when someone called out to him from behind.

'Hey, Nathan, buddy! How are you then?' 

It was the old janitor who waved him hello if he spotted him; sometimes they would chat for a little while before either of them had to go about their business again. It was a nice, unfamiliar change in his routine, but this time his foul mood got the best of him.

'The name's William!' he shouted back, trying to not let his anger carry through the echo. 'I'm leaving now!' 

'William? I was sure you were Nathan...'

'Oh, give me a bloody break!'

He couldn't help but slam the door on his way out.

There was one name he liked the sound of.

But it wasn't his to take.

_

He was a being of flesh and bone, of blood vessels and brain matter, and he didn't need to see himself from the inside, gore and all, to be horrified by the notion.

The wrongness of it slammed into him with the force of a truck going at full speed, rattled his skull pretty good; he should've been everywhere at once, above it, below it, inside it, you name it; he used to be the sound itself, the light, the air, the energy, the electricity and intersecting wires and shiny monitors and the plotline created to remain static, and sure, if he wanted, he could shift into something more solid, more warm than that, but he didn't need to. Oh, how he missed the glory of the past centuries, missed the power he had, as limited as it still was, almost never reaching out of bounds, and yet he enjoyed every second of it until he didn't, until they both didn't, but the heavy decision weighed upon them only got them in trouble, right? He told him, he told him it could turn out this way, he told him he couldn't promise him what he wanted, and look where he was now, he was- he was nothing, pathetic, couldn't even crawl out of the hole he dug out for himself, his mind a lying slithering snake, he just wanted to go back, so much, he wanted him back, he wanted to watch his human fumble through the office, and smile for him, and scowl at him, friend and foe. 

Wanted to be the Narrator again.

So he called out to him, every morning of every day, hoping that one day, Stanley would listen.

But this place seemed to reject him—or maybe he was the one rejecting himself—because the words flickered out, and so did he.

_

He saw her again a week later, smoking in an empty parking lot near the supermarket. She seemed calmer, except her glare was still hard on him and her right hand, the one she held the cigarette with, trembled slightly, causing the ashes to fall on the collar of her beige shirt. He had almost stopped by to make sure it was her, but soon realised that he really wasn't looking forward to a repeat of their last interaction, so he walked past without glancing in her direction. 

'He's clueless, you know.'

He stifled a sigh and turned around. You know what? Fine. If she wanted to talk, he'll talk. Indulge her. She did intrigue him, after all.

The worst that could come out of it? He'd waste his time. Unless she was planning on mugging him. He didn't wish to get mugged today. He left about three meters of distance between them just in case she was going to mug him.

'Who's clueless?' he asked with a poorly concealed bite and hid his hands in the pockets of his coat.

It was chilly, or maybe he was just uneasy, thoughts going back to the day they met, circling around the heavy, ominous accusations.

She blinked slowly, as if she didn't understand the question. Dropped the cigarette on the asphalt and crossed her arms over her chest.

'Are you acting obtuse on purpose?'

He shook his head, taken aback, and straightened his shoulders. Obtuse. She was following him around like a creep (seriously, did she expect to see him here?), grabbing him when she felt like it, asking him strange questions and spoiling his mood, and yet had the nerve to call him obtuse?

'No, it's just that what you're saying is utter nonsense! And by the way, I don't appreciate being confronted like this, you really ought to learn some manners before you-' 

'You don't remember?' the corner of her pale mouth twitched to the side, which pissed him off immensely—she knew something he didn't. 'Oh dear, you're not going to last long like that. Almost at your limit, aren't you?'

He was ready to say something mildly insulting, but stopped himself short and went completely still. This woman, this woman he saw on a train, what was it about her that caught him off guard? It wasn't her attitude, nor her eyes, but maybe it had been a pattern he subconsciously picked up on: the edge to her words, the authority, the way she unapologetically spoke over him.

He had to know her. Otherwise, they were both lunatics—an unfortunate and highly probable conclusion to come to. 

'I believe I'm getting there,' he stated simply. 'Can you please just explain yourself to me? Explain anything? Give me a hint? This- this situation is driving me up a wall.' 

She coughed, turned away; a lock of hair fell over her face. She was wary of him.

'No. I don't care what happens to you. This is the price to pay for your irresponsibility.  But I'll bring it up to him, jog his memory a little, and if you're fortunate enough, your story will get a new branch.'

_

It was a big day, an important day, probably the only important day in his life, and he royally fucked it up.

Or maybe he was blowing it out of proportion; one live episode didn't mean much, but it was his first time on air and the whole purpose, after the overwhelming wave of positive feedback in their official inbox, was to bring more people in. They wanted him to talk more, to have an actual discussion with his listeners, and even though there was a general guideline for the way it should've been done, he was still given freedom of expression.

But he messed up.

It started with not getting a good night's sleep—sleeping was hard in general since he made the announcement about going live. A continuous nonlinear monologue ran through his mind, all the words he could say, all the ways it could go; it did not stop, and he  hoped it wouldn't because when had he ever felt so alive? A long time ago, probably, in another life past the threshold of his awareness—he genuinely wasn't able to think of a single day where his joy didn't simmer, but instead took over him completely.

So he laid there awake, staring up at the celling and thinking, and the sunrise dyed his bedroom in pink, and the morning came faster than he expected, bringing with it the promise of yet another change. This time, he wouldn't have to deal with whatever plagued him right after he woke up. He didn't write incoherent notes in a half-asleep state, didn't turn the desk upside down like that one time and didn't break his favourite mug in a rage fit. It was a perfectly normal morning and he was more tired than usual, but still had his hopes up.

It didn't last for long.

So he got to the studio, and he turned his mic on, and he had a sheet of paper in front of him filled with the lines he wanted to say if he got the chance, and he shook from anxiety but didn't let it show. The first caller complimented him on his voice and his reading, said he wished he had narrated more; after hearing that, he instantly relaxed.

They liked him.

He knew they had, he had read what they wrote to him, after all. Think of it: you turn the radio on while you're in a car stuck in the morning traffic or as you wait for your order at Starbucks to come in, and you hear a stranger who's reading 'A Night in the Lonesome October', and you think you to yourself, what a nice voice, what a nice story; already invested, pulled into the plot, you listen until the end, and then decide that you should let that person know how much you've enjoyed their work. You take your time to write out your thoughts, you send the letter, be it a line or a paragraph, and you go on with your day like it never happened.

Of course he knew. He knew, and he was proud of himself, of his work, but to hear someone say it directly to him was cathartic.

So it was completely unexpected when the next caller had paused for several moments after he asked for his name and then introduced himself as Stanley in a quiet, raspy voice.

Even more unexpected was his reaction to it.

He stopped thinking. Everything he wanted to say left his mind in a heartbeat, and instead, why does it feel like I know you escaped his mouth before he had the time to consider it; no, he didn't, he didn't know this Stanley or any other Stanley, had not met a single one yet, but he did because the name had been there all the time at the back of his head, and find him was there, too, in the same place, and he wished he knew how, wished he knew who it was, but what if Stanley had found him first?

'Please. I need to see you.' so desperate, so pathetic, so sudden; so familiar, so inviting, so dear.

Of course he did.

His smart boy, of course he found him, somehow, in this vast space, he reached out to his miserable self, brave, brave boy. He knew it was him like it was the only thing that ever made sense.

He needed to see him, too, he wanted to speak to him, he decided, but this interaction already went sideways and he would be lucky if a scolding of his lifetime was all he would get for this.

So he chose the implied rejection as the next course of action, and there was something sadistic in the way he did it (how could you leave me for so long, how could you do this to me, you think i will let it go that easily?), but mostly it felt bitter and painful and he had to move on quickly before it got any worse.

He spoke to Betty, Amanda, John and Harry, and several others before he could finally, finally get his hands on that goddamn number.

Yes, he had royally fucked up, and he would admit it with full confidence and a cocky smile because he didn't care.

_

They left the park and found a little cafe nearby; got in, laughing awkwardly (Stanley's laugh was very quiet; barely there at all), bumping into each other accidentally as they took off their outerwear to hang it in the corner.

Seeing that suit was certainly unnerving.

Finally, they both felt warm enough to cease shivering; his companion's nose and cheeks were red, and he wanted to stop staring at his face, that face, but it was hard to stop, was even harder to keep himself from suddenly choking up. He knew that face. Recognized the dark eyebrows and the brown eyes, the messy hair and how the corners of his mouth were always slightly downturned.

'Coffee or tea?' he asked and rubbed his hands together. 'My treat.'

Stanley ducked his head, as if embarrassed, said he preferred tea. They both settled into silence that didn't feel cold, or chaotic, or pressed down on him, and he found himself unable to string two sentences together as that realisation hit him: here he was, spending time with a stranger who wanted to see him so badly that he called him only to say just that, and still agreed to meet the next day even after being spoken to rather rudely; Stanley agreed to meet, and he, himself, had suggested it without thinking twice about his safety or implications or whatever it was that people liked to concern themselves with.

But now...

What do they do now?

The rain rattled against the window they sat next to. It started getting dark, and soon they would have to leave, but for now, they still had time. He tried to compose himself, to take it all in: people around them were speaking to each other, laughing, the silverware in their hands clanked against the plates on their tables, and someone was making a toast to a lovely evening in the company of good friends.

He closed his eyes, let the calm wash over him, opened them, and then stared at Stanley as he tried to decide how to act next.

Should he be honest?

Should he ask questions first?

'You've recognized me.' said Stanley before he even opened his mouth.

It helped.

'I've never seen you in my life,' he replied, struggling to contain his awe. 'And here you are, just standing there, in my suit—I know it was missing, the set was incomplete—and it only makes sense, who else could you be? Can you tell me how on earth you've got it?'

The man hummed, then got distracted by the sight of the waitress that brought their drinks. He took his cup and warmed his hands against it.

'Don't remember.' he said, 'I hit my head and got in the hospital with the suit on. Want it back?'

'No, you can, um, you can keep it.'

Stanley then looked at him, still slightly wide-eyed like a deer in the headlights, and raised his eyebrow as if to say you talk now. And if he ever got anything, it was a hint. So he talked.

He told him about his dreams, too strange to put into sentences (feelings and thoughts rather than clear images, sensations that never made sense), about waking up and feeling like another person entirely, or not a person at all; he told him about struggling to recall his past, as if all of his life flashed before him like pictures on a slide show—here is a house near a lake in the countryside, here is a tiny school building and the boys he'd never met, black and white uniforms, here is the bookshop he worked at, all of it somewhat new, somehow so distant he never even wanted to think about it, crammed into his head.

'I have lived,' he sighed, taking off his glasses and wiping them with the back of his sleeve, '-for forty five years, it seems, and I only became aware of any of it a month ago. It's impossible, Stanley, that never happens, so why?'

He told him about the state of his apartment, about muttering his name all the time (that part was embarrassing), and how out of place he felt when he heard him. It was a lot, and Stanley listened; he nodded, he frowned when he wanted him to be more specific, he drank his tea and looked around, then back at him; he was simply there, and his presence had been enough. 

A single stranger, sharing the weight of his burden, believing his nonsense, hanging onto his every word. Was that what being honest felt like? Pressing onto a sore spot, over, over and over again. It was tiring. He wished it happened sooner.

'You are the voice from my dreams.' said Stanley, 'I was fine just a month ago. But I got into an accident, my friend disappeared on the same day, kept dreaming about an office, someone speaking to me, and I- I-' 

There was a long pause.

'Take your time.' 

'It felt wrong. To be so alone. To remember things that couldn't happen. Then I've heard you on the radio, and it was you, I swear.'

He couldn't help it anymore: he laughed. Hid his face in his hands, and laughed as if he was going to break if he didn't; all the pressure, all the stress and the loneliness, it left him for that evening, and he felt unsteady from the unexpected lightness. The mystery of it, however, a dark, disturbing thing, loomed over them still, and they had to deal with it. They had to. 

'I apologize, Stanley, I am not laughing at you, this... this is very peculiar. I'm genuienly relieved to have met you, but it's too much to take in. We obviously share some history. I have to thank you for finding me: I don't know what would happen if you didn't.'

What now? What now? What now?

'Can you do me a favour?'

Stanley nodded. 

'Keep me company. I want to figure this out, I really do, more than anything, so please.' he didn't want to say it, felt weak and foolish for it, but he had no other options left. 'Help me. We might be able to solve this puzzle together, bit by bit, if we try hard enough. Let's keep in touch; let's meet again. What do you think?'

'Okay.' 

The man looked enthusiastic, yet sounded completely exhausted. It seemed like their conversation sucked all the energy out of him.

He understood that well.

_

They walked down the street, down the sidewalk, careful to not step off the path lit by the streetlights. 

He couldn't help but ask:

'Remembering. It feels like dying, doesn't it?' 

Stanley stopped in his tracks and gave him a knowing smile.