Chapter Text
1999
Doncaster, England
My name is Louis Tomlinson, and when I was eight years old, I had an imaginary friend.
Or at least, I thought he was imaginary.
Back then, I wasn’t thinking about time travel, or mysterious men with impossible eyes, or the universe being far bigger and stranger than I could ever imagine.
I was just a kid—a kid in his garden, playing football, living in a world that I could understand.
And then, one evening, a man appeared out of nowhere—
And suddenly, nothing made sense ever again.
✨
It was evening, the sky golden with its last sun rays—my mom always made me come in before it got too late, but for now, I still had a little time to play. Everything glowed warmly like a picture from a storybook, and it felt like I was hovering in the moments just before the next page.
I was out in the backyard, as usual, kicking my football around. I had on a big, cozy jumper far too big for me. The sleeves hung past my hands, swinging uselessly every time I moved, but I didn’t mind. It was my favourite shirt. Given to me by my grandfather on my birthday last year. It was red—proper red, though a little faded from too many washes. It featured Mickey Mouse on the front, his smile cracked where the fabric had stretched.
My sneakers were covered in mud, leaving a trail of messy marks as I shuffled through the wet grass. The scent of rain hung in the air, rich and invigorating, while the wooden fence loomed in front of me, solid and comforting.
My football, once a vibrant white but now more of a dull grey, thumped against the wooden fence with every forceful kick, the sound cutting through the stillness around me.
At that moment, my mind was completely focused on the task at hand.
I had a single aim: to kick it hard enough to send it flying over the fence.
(For the record, I wasn’t able to do that. Not at that time, at least.)
But then–something strange happened.
One moment, I was playing—kicking the ball into the fence, over and over.
And then, nothing.
The ball never hit the fence.
Instead, it smacked into something solid, with a dull heavy thunk, like the ball had struck something solid, something big, something that hadn’t been there a second ago.
I frowned.
And when I looked up, there it was.
A blue police box, standing exactly where the fence should have been.
I had lived in this house my entire life. I knew every part of this garden, every spot of wild weeds, and the little area where Lottie and I once burned grass with a magnifying glass. The garden was small, so I could easily notice anything unusual. The fence was worn in spots where I’d climbed over it too many times. There was no way a big blue police box could have been hidden here.
No possible way I could have just missed it.
I was eight, not stupid. I knew for a fact that we didn’t own a police box.
But before I could even consider running inside to tell Mum, before I could figure out if I should be curious or scared–
The door swung open,
And he walked out.
It was a man.
He was tall, but not in a fully grown way–more like a kid who had shot up too fast and still hadn’t figured out what to do with his limbs. His hair was a mess of wild curls that looked like they had a mind of their own. His dimples were so deep they looked like they could hide secrets.
He was dressed oddly, at least for around here–in a fitted red coat with big lapels, slightly oversized, hanging off his frame like it had belonged to someone else first. It swayed behind him, not quite a cape, but almost like he wanted it to be. Underneath, a white shirt peeked out, loose and casual, tucked just enough into trousers that looked both expensive and too lived-in at the same time.
He looked like he belonged everywhere and nowhere all at once.
He walked in like he owned the place, as if he had every right to be there, as if this place was his and not mine.
Which was weird.
Because it wasn’t. It was mine.
"Oh—oh, that’s not right," he muttered, digging through his pockets, pulling them inside out, then shoving his hands back in like he’d lost something very important. "That’s—no. That was supposed to be a bit more… oh, whatever."
Then, he froze. Not just for a second, not just a simple pause, properly, completely still. Like someone had hit a pause button on him mid-step.
His red coat, still swaying from all his rushing about, finally settled around him, going still as his eyes locked onto me.
But this wasn’t the look of someone who had just noticed a stranger standing there.
It was more like he’d recognized me.
He didn’t react like a normal person would—like saying "Oh, my mistake, wrong garden!" or "Oops, didn’t mean to land here!" (which wouldn’t have made much sense to an eight-year-old either).
Instead, his whole face brightened up.
His green eyes sparkled bright with something I couldn't quite place—recognition, maybe? Certainty? Something big at least.
And then, just like that, he grinned.
It seemed like I was the most incredible thing he had ever seen.
"There you are!"
I blinked, confused. ‘’me?’’
He didn’t answer. He just watched me, head tilted slightly, his face unreadable—as if he was trying to figure something out, anticipating something.
It probably should have felt weird. But It didn’t.
Because something about him felt…safe. Familiar. Like I’d known him forever. Even though I knew I hadn’t.
Then, just as fast as the excitement had come, he shook his head, like he was brushing off a thought that didn’t belong. His face changed too. Still bright, not in a bad way, just… more careful now. More guarded.
He looked at me, really looked at me, like he was seeing something on me, or like he was second-guessing what he was seeing.
Then, as if correcting himself, as if grounding himself, he spoke again, firmer.
"Not yet."
That was definitely not the kind of answer you should give to a curious eight-year-old.
"Who are you? Are you a police officer?" I asked, since he wasn’t going to answer my first question.
“Oh, no, no! No policeman here!” he said quickly, waving a hand dismissively, like I was a small child. (I was eight, I was a big kid .),
‘’I’m the Doctor.’’
Like that was supposed to mean something. Why would a doctor come into my backyard?
I squinted at him. "Doctor who?"
"Just the Doctor," he said with a grin, like he’d just won some game I hadn’t even realized we were playing.
Then, just as suddenly, he froze again.
His smile wavered for a moment, and his eyes flickering away like he was remembering something he shouldn’t have forgotten.
I watched him carefully. “My name’s Louis,” I said slowly, like he was the little kid between the two of us.
He winced. "Right. Yes. That. I know."
But he wasn’t really paying attention to me anymore. His brows were knitted together, lips moving soundlessly, his whole face pinched in… confusion? Focus? Or something else, I don’t really know.
But then, a flicker of realization.
His eyes widened.
“Wait, no,” The words were barely more than a murmur, spoken more to himself rather than to me. “That’s not what I meant.”
I jumped, startled. “What?”
He didn’t answer.
But his frown deepened, and he whispered something too soft for me to hear, his fingers twitching at his sides as if his body was struggling to keep up with his thoughts.
Suddenly, he snapped his fingers, his whole face lighting up like he’d just solved the biggest puzzle in the universe.
“Right! Sorry, just an old habit I can’t break.” His grin was back now, wide and knowing, like he was letting me in on a secret only the two of us could understand.
He leaned in slightly, lowering his voice like it was just for me to hear.
“I’m not the Doctor. Not really. Not this time.”
He paused for effect, then said, “I’m Harry Styles.”
“Harry Styles,” I repeated, rolling the name around in my mouth. Then I scrunch my nose. “That’s a rubbish name.”
He gasped, hand flying to his chest like I’d deeply offended him. ‘’Oi! I happen to like that name.’’
I shrugged. “S’ just a bit boring.”
He laughed—cheerful and easy, as if it didn’t bother him at all—but there was something strange about it. His eyes showed a feeling that didn’t match his smile. It felt tense.
It felt just like my mom when she was trying too hard to keep a secret from me.
I watched him carefully as he tilted his head toward the blue box. He rubbed his hands together as if deep in thought, the motion slow and deliberate, like he was turning something over in his mind, something just out of reach.
Then, all of a sudden, like he’d just remembered he was supposed to be doing something very important, he spun on his heels and started scanning the garden.
( By that point, I was getting dizzy just watching him come and go in front of his blue box. )
’’Hmm,’’ he muttered, rocking forward onto the balls of his feet.
He dropped to the ground so suddenly it made me jump, pressing his fingers into the grass like he expected to feel something hidden beneath it. His hands moved fast, restless, gliding over the damp earth as though searching for something only he knew was there.
It reminds me of how adults often fidget when they are trying to recall something that feels just beyond their grasp, even though it's right there in front of them.
He suddenly jumped back up, hardly taking a moment to wipe the dirt from his hands. He turned quickly and took a few steps down, still bent low and searching, but now his attention was entirely on Mum’s flowerbed.
What was left of it, anyway.
He moved his fingers through the broken stems, digging in the dirt. His face had changed—no longer filled with frantic energy or bouncing around, but instead determination. Now, he seemed to be on a mission, looking for something significant.
Like he was looking at a crime scene. Or was searching for a buried treasure.
I flinched, picturing how Mum's lips would tighten when she found out her beautiful flower bed was ruined.
“She’s not gonna like that,” I muttered.
He barely seemed to hear me at first, his hands still shifting through the grass, searching, searching—until my words finally caught up with him. He blinked, distracted. “Who?”
Then, softly—cautiously, like he wasn’t sure he wanted the answer—he asked, "Jay?"
I hesitated, suddenly feeling like I was the one in the dark. "Yeah," I answered, watching him closely.
Something flickered across his face—something too quick to name.
Then I asked—quietly, like I was just tossing the question out without thinking too hard—
"Do you know my mum?"
He paused.
Then, in a flash, he was moving again.
He jolted upright, so fast he nearly tripped over himself, dusting the dirt from his hands in frantic little swipes. “Nope! No. Absolutely not. Never met her in my life. Just… Jay! Brilliant name. Fantastic name even! Always liked that name. Really, truly. Good name.”
It was so weirdly specific and overly enthusiastic that I just stared at him for a second.
And yeah. He was lying.
So badly it almost made me laugh—if it hadn’t made my stomach twist instead.
I crossed my arms. “How do you know my mum?”
His face lit up again—too fast, like he’d been waiting for this question, maybe even counting on it.
“Oh, no, no, no,” he said quickly, wagging a finger at me, his grin stretching just a little too wide—like he thought if he smiled big enough, I wouldn’t notice he was dodging the question.
“That’s a very complicated thing to explain,” he continued, nodding to himself like that made it final. "Not for now. For later. Much later. So much later that by the time we get to it, you won’t even remember what you asked."
’’I won’t forget.’’
’’You might.’’
’’I won’t’’
He let out a low breath. “Forgot you were stubborn,” he muttered, like he was adding it to a mental list. Then, before I could press him again, he grinned, too wide, too forced, and clapped his hands together. “Well, Lewis—”
“Louis,” I corrected.
“Yes, that,” he said quickly, like it didn’t really matter, like he already knew that, but his mind was too busy spinning in a hundred different directions to focus.
And then, as if nothing had happened, he beamed at me, rocked back onto the ground with a careless flop on his knees—
“How is she, by the way?”
I blinked. "Mum?"
“Yeah! Jay! Mum! Happy? She’s happy, right?” His voice was rushed, eager, desperate.
A strange feeling crept up my spine. “Yeah…” I said slowly. “She’s fine. Why do you care?”
For just a second, he hesitated—so brief I almost missed it.
Like he was sifting through words in his head, trying to find the right ones.
Then, softer now, as he rummaged around him, he asked—”What’s her full name again?”
I frowned. “Jay. Johannah.” I answered, sceptical now. "Johannah Deakin."
His fingers curled into the grass, grip just a little too tight. His expression barely changed, but something shifted.
"Lovely name, that. Brilliant. Knew some Johannah once—fantastic woman. Absolutely fantastic."
He was lying again.
I watched him carefully. “How do you know my mum?” I repeated.
He hesitated for half a second before finally saying, "That’s a very complicated thing to explain," his voice was quiet now. Careful. Like he was feeling the weight of it.
But something was wrong.
His smile had shifted.
I frowned, watching as he dug through the flower bed, hands pushing aside crushed petals and dirt, his coat dragging in the mud like he didn’t even care. He muttered under his breath, words I couldn’t catch, moving so quickly it almost looked like he was panicking.
I crossed my arms. “What are you doing?”
“Nothing!” he blurted out, voice too high, too quickly. He didn’t even look up. His fingers were still moving, searching through dirt and crushed petals, completely focused.
I scowled. “You’re ruining mum's flowers. That’s not nothing.”
“Oh, well, you know,” he said, waving a hand vaguely, like that was a reasonable excuse. But his eyes stayed locked on the ground, his fingers still sweeping aside crushed petals, dirt smudging his knuckles. “Flowers are important. Very important. You’d be surprised how many secrets end up in flower beds.”
I watched him, frowning as he dug frantically around the blue box, his hands moving through the dirt with urgent, restless energy—like he knew exactly what he was looking for, but not where to find it.
He was muttering under his breath, too low for me to hear, his movements clumsy, rushed, knocking over broken stems and loose soil. He wasn’t just digging—he was hunting, searching like there was a clock ticking down, like something was running out.
I shifted on my feet, growing more annoyed by the second. He was ruining the flowerbed, and if Mum saw, I’d be the one getting in trouble, not him. “Harry,” I said, my voice rising in frustration. “What are you doing?”
“Nothing!” he snapped, too quick, too defensive, which only made me more suspicious.
I narrowed my eyes. “You’re digging in the flowers. That’s not nothing.”
He waved a hand at me without looking up, still focused on the dirt beneath his fingertips. “Ah, well, it depends on your perspective, doesn’t it? Could be nothing, could be something, could be everything —"
“That doesn’t make sense.”
“Lots of things don’t make sense! That’s what makes them interesting, innit ? ”
I huffed, stomping a foot. “You’re messing up Mum’s flowers! If she sees—”
He waved a hand, still digging. “Oh, well, I’m sure she won’t—wait, no, actually, she definitely will see, won’t she? Flowers, mess, very obvious, very… hmm. That’s unfortunate.”
I crossed my arms. “So stop it.”
“Can’t.”
I groaned. “Why not?”
I frowned, tilting my head. “Tell me what you’re doing. Maybe I can help?”
“Nothing, and no you can’t.” he answered too fast.
Like he had rehearsed.
I scowled. “That’s not nothing. That doesn’t make sense!”
He looked up for half a second, blinking like he’d forgotten I was there. Which was completely insane. “Lots of things don’t make sense Louis. Doesn’t mean they’re not true.”
Then, just as quickly, he was back to digging.
I huffed, crossing my arms. “Tell me what you’re looking for!”
“Can’t,” he muttered.
I groaned. “Why not?”
“Because.”
“That’s not a reason!”
“Well, that's my reason!”
Frustration burned in my chest, my face growing hot. He was so annoying. Just showing up out of nowhere, stomping all over Mum's flower bed, digging around like some kind of lunatic—and he wouldn’t even tell me why.
I huffed, crossing my arms as he kept going, muttering under his breath, hands working through the dirt like he was racing against time. His movements were getting quicker, sloppier, scattering soil and crushed petals everywhere.
It wasn’t just random digging anymore—he was looking for something. Something important.
I frowned. “What are you doing?”
“Nothing!” he blurted out, far too quickly.
I hated when grown-ups acted like that and didn’t explain things.
I scowled. “I’m eight, not five. I’m not stupid. You’re wrecking Mum’s flowers!”
He didn’t even look at me—just kept digging like I hadn’t spoken. Then, a beat later, he paused, blinked around, and winced.
“Oh,” he muttered. “Right. Flowers. That’s what we were—yes. Not ideal. Sorry.”
And he went right back to it.
“Then stop.”
“Can’t.”
I groaned. “Why not?”
“Because,” he said, like that explained anything.
I huffed, crossing my arms. “If you don’t tell me, I’m calling Mum!”
That got his attention.
His head snapped up so fast it was like I’d just set off an alarm. His eyes went wide, full of pure panic. “No! No, no, no! No mums! No need for mums! Not now, not ever, no mums allowed!”
I smirked. “Well, I’m going to.” I took a step toward the house.
“WAIT!”
I tried not to laugh at how desperate he sounded. Why was he freaking out all of a sudden? If he knew Mum, wouldn’t he be happy to see her?
He opened his mouth like he was about to argue again, probably to tell me some other nonsense about why I definitely didn’t need to call Mum, but then—
He stopped.
His fingers froze in the dirt.
His whole body went completely still.
And then, very slowly, he pulled something out of the hole he just dug.
A book.
No. Not just a book.
A journal.
It was old, really old. The edges were frayed, the corners torn, the spine cracked right down the middle, like it had been opened and closed a thousand times before. The pages inside were yellowed at the edges, just peeking out from where the cover had been bent back. There was dirt pressed deep into the creases, packed into the seams like it had been buried there for a long time, like it had been waiting for someone to find it.
It was Blue.
Not just any blue.
The same blue as the box.
“What’s that?” I asked, my voice quieter than before.
Harry didn’t answer.
He just held it, his fingers brushing over the cover in slow, careful movements, wiping away the dirt as if the book itself was something fragile, something precious. Something that mattered in a way I didn’t understand.
The playful energy was gone—no more wide grins, no more frantic movements. Now, he was completely focused, his green eyes locked on the journal like it was the only thing that mattered.
And suddenly, I wasn’t so sure I wanted to know what was inside. His singular fixation on the book frightened me.
Harry’s fingers traced the worn edges of the journal, his touch slow, deliberate, like he was trying to pull something from it—some distant memory, or maybe something he didn’t want to remember at all. His expression flickered, his jaw tightening slightly, something unreadable passing over his face.
Then, before I could ask, before I could even try to understand, he snapped the book shut, gripping it tightly in both hands, making it clear that whatever it held inside was for him alone.
Just as quickly, he straightened up, dusting his hands off on his already-dirty coat, shaking off whatever thought had just passed through his head. “Right,” he said, forcing a grin, as if everything that had just happened could be swept away as easily as the dirt off his hands. “That’s sorted.”
I frowned. It had been buried in my backyard. That meant it was mine. Not his. Mine.
“Hey!” I blurted out. “You just found that here! That’s stealing!”
Harry jolted like he’d forgotten I was still there. “What?”
I pointed at the journal. “That’s mine! It was in my garden, under my mum’s flowers! That means it belongs to me.”
Harry looked down at the book in his hands, blinking, then looked back at me. “Ah. Right. Well.” He shifted on his feet, clearly thinking very fast. “You see, technically, it doesn’t work like that.”
I squinted. “Yes, it does.”
“No, no, no—see, things in gardens—" he waved his free hand around like he was explaining the most obvious thing in the world—“sometimes, they just… show up. And sometimes, they were never meant to be there. So really, I’m just… putting it back where it belongs.”
I scowled. “You’re taking it.”
“I’m returning it,” he corrected.
“That’s what thieves say.”
Harry gasped, hand flying to his chest like I’d wounded him. “Oi! I am not a thief!”
I crossed my arms. “Mum says if you take something that isn’t yours, it’s stealing.”
He pointed at me. “That’s a very good rule. Except this—” he lifted the book—“isn’t stealing. It’s borrowing what’s mine. Important difference.”
‘’It’s not yours! It was in our backyard!’’
Harry must’ve noticed, because he crouched down to my level, dimples flashing as he grinned. “Tell you what, Lou—can I call you Lou? Never mind, I’m calling you Lou—you let me borrow this, and I promise I’ll come back and tell you exactly what it is, and bring it back exactly where it was.”
I folded my arms. “I think you’re a thief.”
He gasped, all fake scandal. “Oi! I am absolutely, one-hundred-percent not a thief!”
“You stole a book from my backyard.”
He pointed at me. “Well, technically, I found a book in your backyard.”
“Same thing.”
He scoffed. “Oh, it is not!”
Harry hesitated again, glancing at the book, then at the big blue box sitting at the end of the garden. Then, suddenly, as if remembering something, he straightened up and clapped his hands together. “Right! Well, this has been lovely, really, fantastic, but I should be off.”
I frowned. “Off where?”
He rocked back on his heels, pointing vaguely at the sky. “Oh, you know. Here. There. Everywhere.”
That made no sense.
“But—” I looked at the journal, then at the flowers, then at him. He still hadn’t explained why the book was here. Why he’d been looking for it. Why did he even show up in my garden in the first place? “Are you coming back?”
Just before he left, he promised—
“Oh, absolutely!” he said, grinning again. “I’ll be back in an hour. Maybe two.”
People always came back when they said they would.
So I nodded. “Okay.”
He beamed, spinning on his heel. “Brilliant! See you in a bit, then!” And with that, he strode toward the blue box, pushing the door open like it was just a normal door, like it didn’t matter that the whole thing had appeared out of nowhere.
I took a step forward. “Hey, Harry?”
He paused in the doorway, glancing back. “Yes, Lou?”
I chewed my lip. “Is it a real police box?”
Harry grinned. That big, wild grin like he knew something I didn’t.
And he entered the box without an answer.
He didn’t come back an hour later.
But I never forgot.
Because when you’re eight years old and a madman in a blue box land in your garden—you don’t just forget.
And you never stop waiting.