Later, I read in some book that this fear was just a leftover from our ancient animal instincts—back when survival meant fending off wild beasts or rival tribes. That explanation actually comforted me so much that, over time, I not only made peace with the dark but even became one of those very same barhoppers stumbling home at dawn.

I pulled out a cigarette from the pack I’d discreetly swiped from the hallway shelf (likely belonging to the kid’s grandfather). Lighting up, I sat down on the porch steps, relieved I didn’t impale myself on a splinter. A cloud of exhaled smoke hung in the air, and without thinking, I inhaled it back. Cue a coughing fit. These cigarettes were brutal, way stronger than I’d expected. Wincing, I stubbed it out on the railing and flicked the butt into the dirt.

What’s even the appeal of these things?

I turned my gaze upward. It was probably around 4 a.m.—still dark enough for a few stubborn stars to linger, but dawn was already bleeding into the edges of the sky.

"Wish I could show you these stars," I said aloud, though I wasn’t sure who I was talking to.

A splash echoed from the lake—like a large fish breaking the surface. Sleep-deprived and driven by idle curiosity, I stood and walked toward the water.

Stepping onto the footbridge, I leaned over the edge and stared at my reflection. Gradually, it split into two, warping into something like a convex TV screen playing a film I didn’t recognize.

A walk through the Pink City, where the air was thick with spices and hope. I was with a girl, resting on concrete slabs stacked like staircases, watching water so still it seemed suspended in midair.

Who is she? Why can’t I see her face?

The stranger leaned her back against my shoulder, gazing elsewhere.

"Since I was a kid, I’ve loved looking at the moon."

It took me a second to recognize my own voice—filtered through my mind like a recording. It sounded alien, mismatched.

"Then," I continued, "years later as an artist, I ran into an acquaintance at a bar. He mentioned the spots on the moon are called ‘Mare Tranquillitatis.’ Know what I thought?" I studied the back of her head, her presence radiating warmth, like she already understood.

"That there’s no actual sea there?" She laughed.

"I thought… I’d like to go there," I said, staring at the sky and reaching up as if to touch something just out of grasp. "Because I couldn’t remember the last time I’d felt that kind of peace here. But I didn’t say any of that to him. Just went home, sat on the balcony, and kept staring at that silver disc like it’d pull me closer if I looked hard enough."

A pause. The scent of her hair—warm, familiar—drifted over me.

"‘The Illusion of Tranquility’—that’s what I called the next painting. Sold like crazy that year. Guess that’s what everyone was missing."

"Tranquility?" she asked.

"Illusions," I corrected.

"WE'RE ON FIRE!"

I jerked away from the lake and spun around to see the kid darting frantically along the blazing porch. Flames surged hungrily, devouring the wooden planks.

"Why are you just standing there?!" Oscar shrieked. "DO SOMETHING!"

I lunged toward him—then my foot caught on a rope stretched taut across the footbridge.

Since when was that there—?

The world upended as I crashed into the water like a sack of bricks. Darkness swallowed me instantly. The last thing I saw was Oscar standing at the edge of the footbridge, arms crossed.

Always judging me…

Then the lake pulled me under.

"Seriously, man," Oscar tapped his yellow boot against the footbridge as I spat out lake water and tried to shake slimy algae off my shoulder. "First you shamelessly steal Grandpa's cigarettes, then you toss a lit butt into dry grass. What the hell were you thinking?"