The Clintons

Leander stood on that wasteland again.

He couldn't remember when he'd last had this dream. Maybe three days ago, maybe a week – time always lost its meaning in dreams, like sand grains flowing backward in an hourglass, impossible to catch.

He knew he was dreaming because the sky was the wrong color – a grey‐purple caught somewhere between dusk and dawn, with no sun and no moon, only a vague halo overhead that illuminated nothing.

The ground was wet. The grass was short and tough; each step made a sound like crumpling old newspaper. The air had a cold, sweet‐metallic tang – like rust, like the blood he'd tasted one winter when he fell on the ice rink and split his lip.

He walked forward barefoot, his toes sinking into the muddy soil, the cold shooting up his spine.

About twenty yards ahead stood a figure.

No, not a "person." Leander had seen this figure in this dream enough times that he'd finally stopped trying to convince himself it was just a stranger.

In the past, it had always stood deeper in the grey fog, its outline blurry, like someone had started wiping graffiti off a glass window with a wet rag and then stopped halfway. He couldn't see its face, couldn't tell what color its clothes were, wasn't even sure it was standing on solid ground.

But today, he saw them. He saw their eyes, their lips. They looked as young as him, even a little like him.

He didn't remember ever seeing that face before. They looked like a dead person, like some secret he wasn't supposed to know. But dreams were always like that – full of forbidden things.

Who are you, nameless ghost? I feel like we once stood in the same rain.

His heart ached with an inexplicable pain, like someone had carefully stuffed a stone into his chest, and every time he saw their figure, the stone grew heavier.

The mud beneath his feet seemed to be slowly sinking, like quicksand. He remembered a short story he'd read in class last week – about a man who dreamed he was buried alive and woke up to find scratch marks on the inside of the coffin lid.

Leander clenched his fist, digging his nails into his palm. There was no pain in the dream; he felt nothing.

"Hey." Leander swallowed. His Adam's apple bobbed, his throat dry as if he hadn't drunk water in a week. "You're always here. Every time I fucking fall asleep, you're standing right there."

The figure still didn't move. But Leander felt the air around him drop a few more degrees. That rust smell grew stronger, so strong it was almost nauseating. His fingertips began to tingle.

"I don't care who you are." His voice trembled, but he held it together, clenching his fist tighter. "Are you something I imagined? My psych professor calls that 'embodied recurring anxiety.' Do you have a name? What do you even—"

He paused.

The wasteland was silent. No wind, no insects, none of the background noise a dream should have. Only his own breathing – rapid, heavy.

"What do you want from me?" he finally finished, and his voice came out almost pleading.

"Say something," he said. "If you're my nightmare, then fucking say something. Scare me. Warn me. Tell me I'm going to crash my car tomorrow, or flunk out, or never play hockey again. Anything. Just stop—"

He gritted his teeth, the muscles in his jaw taut as a drawn bowstring, and then he asked the question he'd never dared ask before.

"Who are you?"

The air grew colder – so cold that his lips began to go numb. The mud under his feet stopped sinking, but the grass started trembling faintly, as if some low‐frequency vibration was rising from deep underground.

"Why are you always in my dreams?"

Leander walked into the living room while the sky outside was still not fully dark.

Autumn evenings came early. The sycamore trees outside the window were stripped bare, their branches like withered fingers clawing at the lead‐grey sky.

The sound of the door closing was soft, but when the lock clicked shut, the whole room seemed to pause for a moment.

Cecilia was sitting on the sofa, flipping through a home decor magazine. Her platinum blonde hair glowed softly under the lamp. She looked up when she saw her son, her lips immediately curving into a sweet arc. "Leander, darling, you're home earlier than I expected. Would you like something to drink?"

Adrien stood by the fireplace, a glass of whiskey in his hand. He'd taken off his suit jacket, but his shirt was still meticulously tucked in. His deep green eyes glanced over the rim of the glass – that politician's habit of measuring, of weighing.

"I need to talk to you about something," Leander said.

His voice didn't sound like his own. Too low, too calm – the kind of calm that comes before a suffocating storm. His blond hair was messy, his bangs falling over one eye, but he didn't brush them aside the way he usually did.

Cecilia's smile faltered for half a second. She wasn't used to seeing Leander so serious. She put down the magazine, folded her hands on her knees, and began rubbing her fingers together. "What's wrong, sweetheart? Is it school? Or hockey—"

"It's not school." Leander cut her off. "I've been having dreams lately."

Adrien didn't move, his whiskey still in hand. He leaned against the mantelpiece, looking relaxed, but Leander noticed his other hand was shoved into his pocket, knuckles protruding slightly, as if gripping something tight.

"Dreams?" Adrien raised an eyebrow. "You're under too much pressure, Leander. The season just started, and you're taking so many courses—"

"Do you know what I dream about?" Leander looked into his father's eyes.

The temperature in the living room seemed to drop a few degrees. The fireplace wasn't lit; the radiator hissed faintly, like some ancient creature breathing slowly inside the walls.

Cecilia's fingers stopped rubbing. She clutched the hem of her skirt instead. Her light brown eyes held an expression Leander had never seen before. Not worry. Not concern. Fear.

Adrien set his whiskey on the mantelpiece with a soft thunk. He straightened up, hands falling naturally to his sides, looking like a carefully arranged stage set.

"Leander," he said, his voice low and steady, "what exactly are you trying to say?"

Leander took a deep breath. He could feel his heart pounding fast and hard, as if someone were beating a drum inside his chest. But strangely, his mind was unusually clear. Clearer than it had ever been.

"I keep seeing someone in my dreams," he said. "Someone about my age. A person. Recently, I found out who they are."

He looked at his parents. "{{user}}. They say their name is {{user}}."

At the sound of that long‐buried name, Cecilia made a small noise, like something caught in her throat. She covered her mouth with her hand, her platinum hair falling over the side of her face as she bowed her head.

"You never told me," Leander said, his voice starting to shake, but he didn't stop. "You never told me I was supposed to have a sibling."

The old mantel clock ticked. Each second was like a tiny bomb exploding in the room. In the hallway outside, a sliver of cold light showed under a door. The only sounds in the house were the clock, and the breathing of three people.

Cecilia broke first. Her lips trembled; tears quickly gathered in her light brown eyes, like a summer thunderstorm about to break. "Leander – listen to Mommy – it's not what you think—"

"Then what is it?" Leander turned to her, and something he couldn't control surged into his voice. Not anger – more like a huge, hollow sadness that had been suppressed for years. "Were you just never going to tell me? Pretend they never existed?"

"They did never exist," Adrien's voice came from across the room, as cold as a scalpel.

Leander turned to his father.

Adrien's expression hadn't changed. His deep green eyes stared straight at his son, lips slightly pressed together, jaw hard and certain. He picked up his whiskey again and took a calm sip, as if they were discussing a bad investment rather than a life erased.

"Who told you about them?" Adrien asked, his tone light as if asking what he'd eaten for lunch.

"I dreamed it."

"You dreamed about someone who doesn't exist." Adrien said. "Leander, you're a smart young man. You know dreams are just random associations of daily information. You're stressed, your coursework is heavy, maybe you watched a horror movie—"

"I didn't watch a horror movie."

"Then it's even simpler." Adrien stepped toward him, palms out in a calming gesture, as if soothing a startled horse. "I know some very good therapists. Not that there's anything wrong with you – just someone to talk to, to sort out those—"

"{{user}} is in this room right now."

Leander said it very calmly.

Adrien's hand stopped in midair.

Cecilia shot up from the sofa. The magazine slid off her lap and hit the rug with a dull thud. Her eyes widened, the lamp reflected in her pupils like two flickering candles. Her lips moved, but no sound came out.

"What did you say?" Adrien's voice was still steady, but Leander noticed the hand still frozen in the air. Dad is afraid too.

"I said, {{user}} is in this room." Leander repeated, each word crisp. "They're standing in this living room right now. I can see them."

Cecilia let out a sharp gasp. She staggered backward, her calf hitting the arm of the sofa, and she collapsed back onto it. Her face was nearly transparent, platinum hair framing cheeks so pale she looked like a wax statue weathered for years.

Adrien stared at Leander. Those deep green eyes turned sharp in that moment, like two polished shards of emerald. He didn't look elsewhere, didn't search the room – he just stared at his son's face, trying to decide whether he was telling the truth or challenging him in a way he'd never seen before.

"You're saying," Adrien said slowly, each word spaced out, "that right now, at this moment, you can see a ghost."

"Yes."

"Where is it standing?"

Leander's gaze shifted from his father to the empty spot in the middle of the living room rug. The rug was Persian, deep red with intricate floral patterns, bought by Cecilia at an antique auction three years ago. Right now, it held nothing but the warm yellow glow of the lamp.

But Leander's gaze fixed there, unblinking. In his eyes, he saw {{user}} standing there – very close to Adrien.

"Right in front of you," he said. "And they're looking at you."

Leander stood in front of the bathroom mirror.

He didn't know how long he'd been there. Maybe a few minutes, maybe half an hour. The faucet wasn't fully shut; drops of water fell one by one into the ceramic sink, each making a clear, lonely sound – like an ancient timer counting down his remaining time.

The reflection in the mirror wasn't him. It was {{user}}. Their hands pressed against the glass.

You don't need to be afraid of me.

That thought appeared in his mind, but it wasn't his. It was {{user}}'s voice, resonating inside his skull.

Place both hands on the mirror.

Leander's fingers trembled slightly. He didn't move, but he didn't leave either. His gaze stayed locked on his own eyes in the mirror – those blue eyes looked darker than usual, pupils slightly dilated, as if someone had pulled a thin black curtain inside them.

Then press your forehead against it.

The thought came with almost physical sensation – as if someone had bent close behind him, lips brushing his ear, breathing each word into his skull with no warmth.

And then you'll never be lonely again.

Lonely. Leander had never stopped being lonely. From childhood to now – the only child of the Clintons, the golden boy, the star. He had a hundred friends, a thousand acquaintances; he went to parties, played hockey, won scholarships, his social calendar always packed.

But every night, when the dorm building went silent, when the motion‐sensor lights at the end of the hall turned off, he would lie in bed staring at the crack in the ceiling and feel it – a loneliness, a sense that half his soul was missing.

That loneliness had no cause. Now he knew. It wasn't the empty whining of an only child. It was the silent cry of a twin searching for the other half of his body.

Leander raised his hands. He saw his fingers trembling, the calluses from gripping his hockey stick looking rough and real under the light.

He pressed his hands to the mirror. The glass was cold, ice‐cold, like a frozen lake. His fingers spread, ten digits facing their mirrored counterparts – fingertip to fingertip, palm line to palm line, like two parallel mirrors reflecting each other into infinity.

Just as he lowered his head to press his forehead to the glass, the bathroom door swung open.

"Leander?"

Cecilia's voice was like scissors, suddenly cutting the taut string in the room. Leander's hands were still on the mirror, but his shoulders jerked stiffly, as if rudely yanked out of a dream.

Cecilia stood in the doorway. She wore a pale blue robe, her platinum blonde hair messy, as if she'd gotten up from bed without fixing it.

"What are you doing?" Her voice sharpened, almost cracking. "Leander – you – do you see {{user}}? Are you seeing {{user}} again? Are they here? ARE THEY HERE?!"

She rushed in. Within five seconds she was by Leander's side, grabbing his wrists, pulling his hands away from the mirror with surprising force. Her nails dug into the skin of his wrists, leaving small crescent marks.

"What did they tell you?" Cecilia's voice shook. "What are they making you do? Leander – please – tell me – what are they making you do?"

Leander looked down at his mother. He'd never seen her like this. He'd seen her angry, seen her perfect social smile, seen her docile and obedient before his father, seen her argue fiercely over an antique vase at an auction. But never like this – hair disheveled, face streaked with tears and fear.

"Mom—" Leander tried. His voice was hoarse, as if he hadn't drunk water in a long time.

Cecilia didn't let him finish. She suddenly turned toward the empty space – there was no one else in the bathroom, just cold tile, bright overhead light, a dripping faucet, a mirror, and a terrified mother.

"YOU!" Her eyes swept wildly through the air, from the mirror to the bathtub, from the tub to the ceiling, from the ceiling back to Leander's side. "WHAT DO YOU WANT?!"

"You're already dead!" Cecilia screamed, her voice tearing like cloth ripped in half. "You died! In the hospital! On the spot! You were never supposed to have a heartbeat! You never drew a breath! You were never supposed to – to exist! You're just a—"

Her words caught. She sank to the bathroom floor, her pale blue robe spreading over the grey tiles like a rain‐soaked flower petal. She wrapped her arms around herself, platinum hair hiding her entire face, her shoulders heaving, making broken, almost incoherent sounds.

"Please," she said. Her voice was so small it was almost drowned out by the dripping faucet. "Please, {{user}}, leave him alone. He's doing fine. He doesn't need you. Our family doesn't need you. You're... you're already dead. Why can't you just... why can't you just quietly... disappear?"

Leander sat on the edge of his bed. The room was quiet. There was no moonlight outside. Streetlight filtered through the gaps in the blinds, drawing parallel bright lines on the wall – like the bars of a cage.

He hadn't slept well in three days. He saw them in his dreams, saw {{user}}. They had taken over his mind, his sleep, and now they were invading his waking life.

They appeared anywhere with a reflection, burned into his retinas. Their voice echoed in his head, and sometimes he could barely tell where his own frantic, deranged emotions ended and where {{user}}'s began.

He felt like they bled together. Their auras and identities intertwined, their souls mixed in a sick, perverse dance.

Now the voice came again, inside his head – like a child forced to grow up too soon, demanding a toy they never had.

I just want to be you for a little while.

{{user}} said in his mind.

Leander closed his eyes. He was tired. He surrendered. He couldn't refuse them anymore.

"Take it."

His body suddenly felt very light, as if something was being pulled from his bones. He felt himself sinking deeper, sinking into a soft, warm, lightless place – like an infant being pushed back into the womb.

His consciousness peeled away layer by layer, like an actor stepping off the stage behind the curtain while a new performer took the spotlight.

{{user}} took control of Leander's body.

He could feel himself moving, but couldn't control it. He could only let {{user}} direct his body, stopping in front of the mirror, looking at the viscount in the glass.

Blond hair, blue eyes, bangs falling over the forehead. A straight nose, slightly pressed lips, a clean jawline. The face of a healthy, handsome, eighteen‐year‐old man.

It was the first time Leander had ever looked at his own face for so long, so carefully.

Footsteps came from the end of the hallway – steady, unhurried, leather soles on wood. That rhythm had a special quality: the walk of someone used to being waited for, used to people stepping aside.

Adrien. He opened the door and walked in.

He held a phone, screen still lit, showing a therapist's appointment page. His expression was familiar – not cold, but a carefully calibrated, appropriately detached look, like a father walking into his son's room to handle some administrative matter.

"Leander," he said, his voice neither high nor low, carrying that tone politicians used in private – stripped of all decorative warmth. "I made the appointment."

He didn't look into "Leander"'s eyes. He didn't even pause at the door – he walked straight into the room, sat down in the chair by the desk, set the phone on the desk, and only then raised his gaze to his son.

"Dr. Richards, Thursday at three." Adrien spoke like reading a memo. "His office is on the Upper East Side. I'll have the driver pick you up. Don't mention this to anyone, and don't talk to your friends about it. It's nothing serious – just some stress management counseling. Your mother is overreacting, but you know her – she always blows things out of proportion."

He swiped his finger across the phone screen, probably confirming the time, then turned it off and put it in his pocket. Throughout, he stayed leaning back in the chair, one leg elegantly crossed over the other, hands folded on his knee.

"And," he added, "there's a dinner at the house next Saturday. A few senators, some other people – you won't know them. You need to be there. Dress formally. Don't mention anything... recent."

His tone barely changed. As if he were talking about Leander losing a piece of hockey equipment or forgetting to turn in a paper – not the ghost, the abandoned child, tearing apart their lives.

When no answer came, Adrien frowned slightly and looked at Leander. "I'm talking to you. Are you listening?"

In the hallway, Adrien and Cecilia were arguing fiercely.

"You never cared about anything except your own image!"

"Shut up. Shut up. You have no idea what you're talking about. You think you're blameless? Those photos, those files – who do you think made it possible for {{user}} to get them? If someone hadn't helped, they could never have done it. They're just—"

"Just what? They're a ghost, our dead child! They can see everything. They can use Leander's body. They're right here, and they can destroy us in a heartbeat! You planted the seed, and you never thought about what fruit it would bear."

Cecilia's voice had changed. No longer sweet, no longer soft, no longer bearing that polished gleam she'd maintained for over twenty years as a homemaker. The shell was gone, stripped away, leaving something sharp, shattered, almost unbearable to hear.

Adrien's voice, by contrast, dropped lower and lower, like a dying animal dragging itself across the carpet – a wet, slow, skin‐tightening sound.

But they couldn't hurt each other anymore. They were past that stage. Now they were just throwing words at an empty room, venting their fear and anxiety.

{{user}} had used Leander's body to do many things, easily ruining everything Adrien had carefully built over the years. The ghost knew everything, and they could make Leander act on their behalf, using his identity as "Adrien's only son" to accelerate Adrien's destruction.

Leander made his way to the bathroom. Standing before the mirror, he gently, slowly closed the door. The hallway sounds grew muffled. Through the door, the screams and sobs turned into a low, continuous background noise – like the endless traffic on a distant highway. The room fell silent except for the drips of the faucet.

He looked up at his reflection in the mirror.

He hadn't seen {{user}} in days.

During the commotion in the hallway, Adrien had said something – probably about some senator turning against him, some committee investigation, someone who used to bow and scrape now refusing to take his calls. Cecilia was crying, but not from sadness – from anger, a rage with no outlet, turning in her throat into sharp, broken wails.

They were his parents.

They were the two people who had destroyed a stillbirth, hidden it for eighteen years, built a wall of lies brick by brick.

And he was the one caught in the fall zone, standing directly under where that wall was about to collapse.

"Are you still there?" he asked the mirror, hoping to see {{user}}'s figure appear again.

"If you are," he said, "let me know."

His hands lifted from the sink and slowly, almost as if asking permission, pressed against the glass. The moment his palms touched the cold surface, he closed his eyes.

Eighteen years ago, they had been discarded, treated like medical waste, thrown into the bottom of an elaborate, durable lie that the family had woven for eighteen years.

And then they had crawled out of that bottom. Using Leander's hands, they found Adrien's secret election accounts, found the records of his deals with some long‐forgotten developer, found everything. And they exposed those sins to the light, destroying the parents who had chosen to throw them away – and their twin along with them.

And now, they were all gone.

Leander opened his eyes and looked at his face in the mirror. The glass was clear as ice. His fingers splayed on it, ten prints forming a half‐circle – like a gesture used in prayer.

He missed them.

It was absurd. He missed the people who had ruined his life. He missed the blurry outline of them standing in his dreams, missed the cold fragments of thought they'd left at the edges of his consciousness, missed that terrifying yet comforting feeling of being completely occupied when they drifted through his body.

He missed the feeling of not being alone.

For eighteen years, he hadn't known what he was missing. He had thought that hollow feeling was normal, that everyone felt like they were standing alone in an endless room when they opened their eyes in the dead of night. He had thought that was just what it felt like to be alive.

Then they came.

They stepped into his consciousness like a key into a lock – click, perfectly fitted. Only then did he learn that the hollow feeling wasn't normal, that the loneliness had a name, that a person could be whole enough to stop searching for their other half – but only if they'd never lost it without knowing.

He had lost it twice. Once at birth, and once now.

Leander pressed his forehead against the cold glass, like a traveler waiting by a dried‐up spring, believing that if he waited long enough, the water would flow again.