Chapter 2: The Fourth Anniversary

Chapter 2: The Fourth Anniversary

Four years. One thousand, four hundred and sixty-one days. Each one a perfect, unbroken testament to his failure. The guilt was no longer a sharp pain but a dull, permanent organ inside him, a cold stone lodged beneath his ribs.

Leo stood apart from the small group gathered by the park bench. His sister, Sarah, clutched a bouquet of white lilies, her face pale and etched with a quiet, practiced grief. Her husband, Mark, stood beside her, his hand a steady presence on her shoulder. A few other relatives murmured condolences, their gazes sliding past Leo as if he were a ghost haunting the edge of their sad little ceremony. In a way, he was.

They had chosen this park for the fourth anniversary of Lily’s “disappearance.” It was neutral ground, a place untainted by the memory-soaked walls of Sarah’s apartment or the screaming, silent horror of the alley. For them, this was a memorial. A vigil. A step in the long, painful process of letting go.

For Leo, it was a mockery. You don’t memorialize a hostage.

“Leo, please,” Sarah’s voice was a low plea, cutting through the crisp autumn air. “Come and stand with us. For her.”

He looked at the framed photo they’d placed on the bench: Lily at five years old, a gap-toothed grin and a dandelion crown askew on her head. The last photo ever taken. He had taken it, just an hour before she was gone.

“We’re not remembering her, Sarah,” he said, his voice a rough rasp. He hadn’t meant to say it aloud, but the words clawed their way out. “We’re giving up.”

Mark’s face tightened. “That’s enough. Don’t do this today.”

“Do what?” Leo shot back, a frantic energy buzzing under his skin. “Do what? Remember the truth? Remember the chalk? The rule I broke?”

A wave of pity and frustration washed over Sarah’s face—the look he dreaded more than any anger. “The police psychiatrist said it was a trauma response, Leo. A way for your mind to cope with—”

“I’m not crazy!” The shout was louder than he intended, sharp enough to make a passing jogger flinch. He lowered his voice, the words tumbling out in a desperate torrent. “It was real. The game was real. Leaving the door open… it let something in.”

“Stop.” Sarah’s voice was steel. “Stop it. Today is about Lily. Not about your… story.”

The chasm between them had never felt wider. In the first year, they had been united in their frantic search. The second year, they were joined in grief. By the third, as Leo’s obsession with the alley, with chalk drawings, with esoteric rules of pretend grew, their paths diverged. They wanted closure. He wanted a war.

Defeated, Leo shoved his hands into the pockets of his faded hoodie and turned away, the stone in his chest dragging him down. He walked a few paces off, stopping under the deep shade of an old oak tree, its gnarled branches reaching out like skeletal fingers. He couldn’t watch them pray for her soul. Her soul was fine. It was her body, her life, that was stolen.

That’s when he saw it.

Leaning against the far side of the oak tree, as if it had been there all along, was a figure. It was dressed in stark black and white: tight black trousers, a striped shirt, white gloves, and black suspenders. Its face was a mask of dead-white greasepaint, with black diamonds painted over its eyes. And its mouth… its mouth was a slash of black paint, a smile stretched too wide, too sharp, a silent, predatory grin.

It was a Mime.

Leo’s blood ran cold. It wasn't a street performer. There was no hat for coins, no curious crowd. It stood with an unnatural stillness, its head cocked, its painted smile fixed on him. The world seemed to mute around it; the park sounds, the murmur of his family, faded into a dull, distant hum. There was only the Mime, the oak tree, and him.

As if sensing it had his complete attention, the Mime moved. Its actions were jerky, yet fluid—a puppet animated by unseen strings. It pushed itself off the tree and took a few exaggerated, silent steps toward him onto the grass. Then, the performance began.

The Mime braced its feet and pretended to pull something heavy. Its muscles strained, its painted face contorted with effort. It was hauling an invisible rope. Leo watched, mesmerized and horrified, as the creature pulled a massive, invisible object into the space between them. It mimed setting down a large, heavy sack.

Leo’s breath hitched. He couldn't move, couldn't scream. He was frozen, the sole audience for this grotesque, private show.

The Mime patted the invisible sack, then looked directly at Leo. It brought a single, white-gloved finger to its too-wide smile in a shushing motion. With agonizing slowness, it knelt and began to untie a knot at the top of the invisible bag. It pulled the top open, creating an invisible aperture.

Then it reached inside.

What it pulled out made Leo’s soul scream. The air shimmered, warping like heat haze over asphalt. For a split second, an image was superimposed over the manicured park grass—a girl, huddled and terrified.

It was Lily.

She wasn’t five anymore. Her face was thinner, older—nine years old, maybe ten. Her hair was long and matted, her eyes wide with a terror so profound it transcended time. She was wearing a tattered version of the same pink shirt she’d worn that day. She looked right at Leo, her mouth opening in a silent cry for help, her small hands pressing against a barrier he couldn’t see, the invisible wall of the Mime’s prison.

“Lily,” the name was a choked whisper, a prayer.

The Mime grinned its painted grin. It made a show of looking at its captive, then back at Leo, a mocking, performative cruelty in its black-diamond eyes. It patted her on the head—a gesture that made the shimmering image of Lily flinch violently. It was a taunt. A demonstration of ownership. Look what I have. Look what you lost.

This wasn't a memory. This wasn't a delusion. This was a live broadcast from Hell.

The Mime held the pose for a moment longer, savoring Leo's agony. Then, with a swift, efficient motion, it mimed pulling a drawstring tight, closing the top of the bag. The heart-wrenching image of Lily vanished. The air snapped back to normal.

With a final, mocking bow, the Mime shouldered its invisible, precious cargo. It began to walk backward, its painted smile never leaving Leo’s face. It retreated toward the deep shadow cast by the oak tree’s trunk. It took one step into the shadow, then another. Its body seemed to dissolve, to be swallowed by a darkness that was impossibly deep. In two steps, it was gone. The shadow was just a shadow again. The grass was empty.

The spell broke.

“NO!” The roar tore from Leo’s lungs, raw and savage. He lunged forward, clawing at the empty air where the Mime had stood. He fell to his knees on the grass, his fingers digging into the dirt. “GIVE HER BACK! GIVE HER BACK!”

“Leo! What is it?!” Sarah was running toward him, her face a mask of alarm. Mark was right behind her.

“The Mime! It had her!” he screamed, pointing at the empty space, at the harmless shadow. “It had Lily! I saw her! She’s alive!”

Sarah knelt beside him, her hands hovering over his shaking shoulders. She looked at Mark, her eyes swimming with a fresh wave of pain. But this pain wasn’t for Lily. It was for him.

“Oh, Leo,” she whispered, the words laced with an unbearable pity. “There was no one there.”

He looked from the empty grass to his sister’s heartbroken face. They hadn’t seen it. Of course, they hadn’t. The performance was just for him.

The grief, the alienation, the four years of torment—it all fell away, burned to ash by the white-hot certainty that had just been branded onto his soul. He wasn't crazy. He wasn't grieving wrong.

He was at war. And now, finally, he knew his enemy’s face.