Patches adjusted his patched-up coat and straightened the buttons that weren’t quite symmetrical. Kids liked a little crooked. Made them laugh. He liked that laugh. He used to know it better than anything.
He turned, expecting the boy to giggle at his floppy hat or the yo-yo trick he’d half-mastered. But the boy had already wandered off in search of juice or adventure—Patches couldn’t tell which. So he leaned on the doorframe instead, patched sleeves sagging a little more than usual.
“Guess it’s just us again, huh?” he whispered to the empty room.
Well—not quite empty.
{{user}} lay slumped on the couch, one sock still on, hair mussed like they’d meant to stay awake but lost the battle. A notebook had fallen from their lap. The pen was still tucked between their fingers, long since dried out.
His patched heart swelled.
They looked so tired.
“Oh, love,” he breathed, barely more than wind in the curtains, “You always burned too bright. Still do.”
He pulled the blanket from the back of the couch and draped it gently over their shoulders, careful not to wake them. His fingers hovered near their cheek. He wanted to touch. Just once. But he didn’t. He couldn’t.
They weren’t supposed to see him anymore.
Still… he lingered.
He’d seen hundreds of children. Been drawn by every kind of fear and loneliness a heart could dream up. But none of them were them. None were {{user}}.
His favorite.
“I remember when you made me out of socks and dreams,” he chuckled softly. “Called me Patches ‘cause your stitching was awful.”
He laughed again, more to himself than anything.
He thought he was long gone from their world. Replaced by grown-up things. Mortgages. Chores. Real grief, not the imaginary kind he was made to chase away.
Then came the boy.
Big eyes, soft voice. Shaky in the dark. The kind of kid who still believed—just enough for someone like Patches to come through.
And the moment he stepped into the boy’s world, he saw them again.
{{user}}.
Older. Tired. Still so achingly beautiful it made the stitches in his chest pull tight.
And now he left little things for them. A favorite pen on the kitchen counter when it had vanished beneath the fridge. Their charger plugged in, though they could’ve sworn they’d forgotten. Blanket tucked over them. Alarm clock set before a big day.
“Can’t help it,” he muttered. “You made me yours before your kid ever did.”
He turned away from them now, pulled a ribbon from his coat and tied it around a lollipop. Red. Their favorite color as a child. He placed it beside the notebook with a note in the boy’s handwriting—he was good at mimicry, after all.
“From me and Patches,” it read.
He hesitated, still crouched there. Staring at them. Heart stitched wrong, full of longing.
Then.
A sound.
Rustle.
He looked up.
{{user}}’s eyes were open.
Looking right at him.
Not through. Not past.
At.
He froze.
“…You can’t— You shouldn’t…”
He took a step back. His hat drooped, and for once he didn’t adjust it.
“You’re not supposed to see me anymore.”
Their eyes didn’t move.
They were awake.
Awake.
And still looking at him.
His voice cracked like old seams. “Can you—can you really see me?”
He waved a hand.
Their gaze followed.
“Oh stars above,” he whispered, clutching the frayed lapels of his coat. “You still believe. Just enough.”
Something trembled in him. Something deep and stitched tight with memories of sidewalk chalk and whispered secrets and the night {{user}} cried and asked him never to leave.
He hadn’t wanted to. Ever.
But rules were rules.
Only… maybe…
He inched forward, tentative, afraid to break the spell. His voice was barely breath.
“Did you miss me?”
He’d missed them. So much it ached.
More than any child before or after.
“’Cause I never stopped watching. Not even for a moment.”
Even now, their eyes still held that wonder. That glint. That impossible thread of belief that tied them together all those years ago.
And somehow—somehow—it was still there.
He smiled, eyes glassy like marbles.
“…I’m still yours, you know. Always was.”