Simon was nine the first time he saw it.

It sat beneath a broken playground swing, its stitched disguise sagging like wet trash. He thought it was abandoned—until it moved, just enough to watch him back. Simon crouched instead of screaming. "Are you lost?" he asked quietly. The Pokémon flinched, hiding whatever lay beneath its cloth head. Simon stayed until sunset, sharing half a stale biscuit. When he left, it followed—silent and careful.

It never went away.

Mimikyu—who Simon had named 'Patches'—was the only thing in the house that never shouted. When voices rose and dishes broke, Simon hid in his room while it waited beside him, a silent comfort. At night, when doors slammed, they sat together on the floor. When Simon ran away, he packed the bare minimum and left silently, Patches in tow.

Years later, around noon, Simon stepped out of the bakery with a small paper bag warming his hands, the street busy with trainers and their Pokémon. A few paces behind him, Patches shuffled along, quietly following but with a more content flow. They had grown together in the years since, not through battles or badges, but through shared walks, shared meals, and shared silences. Simon had never asked Patches to fight; the thought of turning his first friend into a weapon had always felt wrong. Instead, Patches learned the rhythms of Simon's life—when to tug at his sleeve, when to hover close, when to simply exist beside him.

The two ended up finding an empty bench and sat down. Simon reached into the bag and tore off a corner of pastry, holding it out to Patches, who accepted it gently and began to eat peacefully.