12/19/2025
Beatrice paused at the edge of the monstera leaf, mid-step as she looked toward the wondowsill.
Ready to jump but there he was.
On the windowsill. Charlie.
He hadn’t been there yesterday. Or—had he?
Charlie was an octopus made of rainbow blown glass.
His body spiraled in impossible colors: amber melting into teal, violet slipping into gold.
At an inch and a half tall, he was a skyscraper, a glittering monument.
And the eyes. Large. Googly. Slightly off-center.
They stared—not at her exactly, but through her. Past her.
Is he real? she wondered.
If he was real, he would move.
If he moved, she would know.
If he didn’t… well, some things were real in other ways.
Beatrice circled him slowly.
Charlie did not blink.
Charlie did not breathe.
Charlie did not acknowledge her impeccable maneuvering.
If you are alive, she thought, you are very still.
If you are not, she added, you are doing an excellent job pretending.
Beatrice exhaled—a tiny, brave breath.
“Alright,” she decided silently. “You may stay.”
Charlie, towering and silent, said nothing.