Leo's Imaginary Friend

The silence of the old house was a heavy blanket, muffling the sounds of the wind outside and the frantic beating of seven young hearts. Elara sat on the edge of Leo’s narrow cot, tracing the worn patterns on the quilt with a fingertip. The boy’s eyes, wide and dark in the dim light filtering through the grimy windowpane, were fixed on something just beyond her shoulder.

“He’s still here, Elara,” Leo whispered, his voice barely audible.

Elara’s breath hitched. She’d heard him murmuring to himself earlier, a soft, nonsensical babble that had initially seemed like the ramblings of a scared child. But the intensity in his gaze, the way he flinched at unseen things, troubled her deeply. “Who is, Leo?” she asked, keeping her voice as gentle as she could.