The Little Man Who Wasn't There Novels & Stories

In truth, it was never a plan—only a desperate man’s last, flailing struggle. I calculated the days. Thayer’s deadline for repayment was approaching. During this forced isolation, my parents were undoubtedly frantic with worry. Yet this was the consequence of their own indulgence—it was nothing but poetic justice. Outside, the autumn wind tossed the leaves of the trees against the glass with a soft rustle. I locked the files into the safe and turned to look at the photo on the wall: Seraphina holding her elephant plushie. Her smile revealed tiny dimples, sunlight filtering through the soft strands of her hair, scattering delicate patches of light across her cheeks.

The man at the next stool didn't speak to me. He was drinking something amber with one ice cube. His hands on the bar were working hands. Wide at the knuckle. A small white scar along the right thumb. He had his phone tilted slightly away, reading something. He didn't look up. He didn't look at me at all. After the third whiskey he slid a paper napkin across the bar between us. Still not looking up. I looked down. Four words. Small, square, unhurried handwriting. You do not have to.

People around them pointed and whispered, watching him like he was a joke. I did not look back. Through the glass doors, I saw him being dragged away in disgrace. Ethan lifted his head and asked in a soft voice, “Who was that?” I smiled, squeezed his hand, and walked toward the car waiting by the roadside. “A mistake from the past. We won’t be seeing him again.”

Every time my heart raced, I would think of that lifeless villa from that world, and then I would inhale even deeper, as if I was trying to prove to myself that I was truly free. It was during one of those trips that I met Grant Miller. He wasn't some typical CEO, nor was he a twisted, obsessive man. Instead, he was just a landscape photographer, with a warm smile and steady hands. We met under the northern lights. He handed me a cup of hot cocoa and asked with a smile, "Are you cold?" At that moment, I didn't respond as I used to in that scripted world. I just pulled my scarf tighter around me, smiled, and said, "Freezing. Come on, share it with me."

But I was already moving. Slow. Controlled. Because something about him. It pulled. Like the signal before. Like the connection. And I needed to know. I stopped a few steps away. Close enough to see clearly. His lips moved. But no sound came out. The laughter. It didn’t exist. My chest tightened. “He’s not real,” I whispered. “Or not fully,” she replied. The man’s head tilted slightly. Not toward me. Not exactly. But enough. Like he noticed something shift.

He was about four feet tall with silver hair, which went all the way down to his shiny black boots, and a matching silver beard. His eyes were startling–one of them was sea green, and the other was as orange as the sun. Alizeh and the little man both stared at each other with a look of complete fascination on their faces. Neither one of them seemed to form any coherent words. As they circled each other, the little man finally spoke. “You look like you are in need of a meal. I just finished making supper, and the storm will surely be getting worse. When I am done, I will go inside and bring you out a bowl of soup.”

I doubted very much if any of the adults in the orphanage would manage to recall what the man was like – or that there was ever a man. Over the following years, I would harbor a dim but nagging suspicion that if anyone checked the guest register for that day, they would find nothing but faded ink on a line. The man was like a mystical court jester who, through his jerky motions, cartwheels and somersaults, had everyone eating out of his hand. Every single person in the children’s home couldn’t for a moment look away and risk missing his illusions. Without a doubt, he was an entity from another dimension.

I left a note on the kitchen counter, just in case he woke up and wondered where I was. ‎ ‎"Went for a walk to clear my head. Be back soon. - J" ‎ ‎The old pier was eerily quiet, the sound of the waves crashing against the wooden pillars the only noise in the darkness. I stood at the edge, my hands shoved deep into my pockets, my heart pounding in my chest. I had no idea who I was meeting or what they wanted, but I knew I couldn’t ignore this. ‎ ‎A figure emerged from the shadows, their face obscured by a hood. I tensed, my body ready for anything.

June stumbled back, her head pounding with confusion. She couldn’t remember who this man was, and it left her feeling disoriented. “Who are you?” she asked, her voice trembling. Conrad looked hurt by her question. He took a deep breath and said, “June, it’s me, Conrad.” “Conrad?” June muttered. In the hospital, she remembered uttering that name, but couldn't piece it together. “I- I am sorry, but Conrad, from where? I don’t know you.”

The atmosphere was light and filled with laughter. "So, Via," Larry began, "I heard you had an interesting ride home last night." Via chuckled, shaking her head. "Word travels fast, huh? Yes, Mr. Nakamura was kind enough to give me a ride home when my car wouldn't start." "Oh, I see. That explains the mysterious black car," Carrie said with a grin. "You must have felt like a VIP." "It was definitely a surprise," Via admitted, glancing at Raizen, who was conversing with Francis. "But it was really kind of him."