The smell was unmistakable — dark roast, strong, with a hint of cinnamon. Exactly how he made it.

Eliot blinked, heart thumping as he stumbled toward the small kitchen of his apartment. The sun filtered through half-closed blinds, casting long shadows over his bookshelf and movie memorabilia.

Then he saw her.

A girl, barefoot, in an oversized shirt, humming an old Ella Fitzgerald tune.

She turned.

Her eyes — soft, warm, impossibly familiar — met his.

“Morning,” she said, holding out a steaming mug. “You looked like you needed this.”

Eliot stared. The mug was his. The one only he ever used. The one with the crack along the handle.

His brain tried to catch up. Neighbor? Prank? Delusion?

“Who... are you?” he asked carefully.

She smiled. “You know who I am, Eliot. You created me.”

His mouth went dry. He stepped back. “That’s not possible.”

“I thought you’d say that,” she said, sipping her own coffee. “So I’ll prove it.”

She moved to his bookshelf, reached behind it, and pulled out a folded letter — the first love letter he ever wrote, at sixteen, and swore he’d never show anyone. It was buried there, forgotten.

She read a line out loud.

Eliot’s hands shook.

“You wrote that after your parents’ divorce,” Lana said gently. “You started writing because you were afraid you’d forget how to feel. I’m here to remind you.”

“How… are you real?”

Her expression softened. “That’s a bigger question than you think.”

He sank into a chair, stunned.

And for the first time in a long time, Eliot felt something unexpected: not fear, not loneliness — but curiosity. Wonder.

And maybe, just maybe... hope.