The west conservatory of Keller Mansion, tucked beyond thick hedges and weathered stone paths, was a riot of green and soft filtered light. Ivy slinked up the stone walls like sleepy serpents, while potted orchids and bonsai fig trees sat in ordered rows beneath the arched glass roof. The air smelled faintly of lemon wax and moss.
Ethan sat cross-legged on an old wooden bench near the center fountain, carefully polishing the brass lamp that sat in his lap. His fingers were wrapped in a soft cloth, moving slowly, deliberately, the way he imagined a grown-up would handle something fragile and important.
He wasn’t sure why he’d brought the lamp out here. Maybe because it had become a habit. Maybe because Ken had been too quiet since that morning—unreadable, tense, guarded—and Ethan didn’t know how to help. Maybe because deep down, he felt the need to apologize for something he didn’t even remember doing. But Ethan found comfort in the act of caring for the lamp. It was the one thing he could do, here and now, that made him feel a little useful.
The lamp, warm even in the shade, pulsed faintly beneath his hands. Geoffrey, as Jubbar had once insisted the lamp be called—“Geoffrey the Unmoved, the Ever-Simmering, the Sometimes Sarcastic”—had always been silent when Ethan was around him. He knew the name now—thanks to the ever-flamboyant, ever-exasperated Jubbar the Magnificently Frustrated. Two weeks ago, when the contract had been fresh and Ethan’s still learning his duty as a custodian, the genie had grudgingly explained that Geoffrey wasn’t just a magical artifact. He was a he, and he’d lived far longer than any human alive. Perhaps longer than most mountains.
And Geoffrey had a personality. A quiet one. A cranky one.
But also, maybe... a wise one?
Ethan gently rubbed a soft cotton cloth along Geoffrey’s curved brass side, polishing between the swirling etchings. He murmured quietly as he worked.
“I just don’t know what to do, Geoff.”
The nickname slipped out before he could stop it, and Ethan glanced around, embarrassed. But the lamp didn’t spark, smoke, or bite him for it. So he kept going.
"Ken misses someone," Ethan said aloud, barely above a whisper. "He misses the me I used to be. I mean… I don’t remember being the Blue Boxer. Not really. Not in my head. But Amelie said I was Ken’s mentor. Like a big brother,or even more. And Anuli told me I was the one who gave him a chance. But now I'm just... me. Kid me. And I think I'm letting him down."
He paused, brushing a fleck of dust from the lamp's ornate side. The swirling designs always seemed to shift just a little when you weren’t looking directly at them.
"And I don't even know what I'd say to him if I could remember. 'Sorry the grown-up me abandoned you'? 'Sorry I left you to grieve someone who's technically still alive'?"
The lamp said nothing. The conservatory creaked faintly in the sun.
Ethan sighed, his shoulders slumping. “I don’t want to be the old me again. I didn’t ask to forget everything for no reason. I was hurting too, right? I must’ve had reasons. But Ken’s hurting now… and it feels like I’m supposed to do something about that.”
Ethan gently wiped at the spout, his reflection warped and boyish in its curved sheen. Twelve-year-old Ethan looked nothing like the chiseled man in the domino mask that once graced newsreels and surveillance footage. He stared at the lamp, voice small. “Do you think I should’ve stayed grown up?”
There was silence. Then—
**No.**
The voice wasn’t spoken. It resonated inside Ethan’s mind like a gentle gong—deep and old and faintly bemused. Ethan startled, the cloth slipping from his hand.
“What—was that you?”
**Geoffrey,** the voice said with a sigh. **Yes. You polished the right spots and I found it annoyingly soothing. Which is terribly cliché, by the way. But effective.**
Ethan blinked. “You… can talk?”
**I can think. Which is much more refined. Most of your species can't tell the difference.**
Ethan leaned closer to the lamp, unsure if he should be scared or excited. “You’ve never talked to me before.”
**Because I don’t like talking. It wastes time and builds expectations. But you’re being sincere. You care about that boy. And I find the runts with sincerity... slightly more tolerable.**
Ethan swallowed. “So... can you help? I mean, I don’t want my old memories back, if that breaks the rules. But there has to be something I can do for Ken. Something that helps him remember he’s not alone.”
A long pause. Then:
**You are more than memory, child. And the echoes of who you were are not entirely gone.**
“What do you mean?”
**The wish Jubbar granted was not destruction—it was suppression. There are remnants. Shards of your former self. Hidden in the folds of your mind. In instincts. In values. In dreams.**
Ethan furrowed his brow. “Like... like muscle memory?”
**Precisely. You cannot be who you were, but you can remember how you felt. What mattered to you. Who mattered.**
The lamp vibrated faintly, and Ethan’s hands warmed.
**If you are willing... I can awaken those echoes. Not fully, not dangerously. Just enough to give you... guidance.**
Ethan sat straighter. “What would that mean?”
**A voice. A whisper, here and there. Your older self—the Blue Boxer—was stubborn, theatrical, and morally inflexible. But he cared deeply. That voice will speak to you, at times. Not as command. But as advice.**
Ethan’s eyes widened. “So... I’d get a grown-up me… in my head?”
**Think of it as an angel in your head who happens to be you. Sarcastic. Motivational. Occasionally embarrassing.**
Ethan’s heart pounded. “That would help Ken, wouldn’t it? Even if I’m not the guy he remembers, I could still act like him. Try to live up to it.”
**That is the point, young custodian. You are not responsible for being him again. But you are capable of becoming someone Ken can believe in. Not because you’re the Blue Boxer... but because you’re Ethan Keller. And that is enough.**
Tears pricked at Ethan’s eyes. He didn’t know why. He wasn’t sad. Just... overwhelmed.
“I want to try,” he whispered. “Please. Help me do it.”
The lamp flared softly in his lap—golden light curling around his fingers like a breeze made of warmth and resolve.
**It is done.**
Ethan gasped quietly. For a moment, everything went still. The conservatory air shimmered, and then—
Ethan heard it.
Just a whisper.
Low. Firm. Kind.
“You’ve got this, kiddo. Trust your instincts.”
Ethan gasped, spinning in place. No one was there. But he felt it—in his heart. A whisper of confidence. A Man's Voice. Not commanding nor condescending—but something older, stronger, and calm, coiled like a protective hand on his shoulder. Almost.....like a father.
“You will do better than me, kid. Just be brave enough to fail. Be kind enough to get back up again.”
Ethan’s lip quivered.
“...Hi,” he whispered to the voice.
“Hi, squirt.”
A smile tugged at Ethan’s lips as he looked down at the lamp.
“Thank you,” he said, cradling it close.
The lamp offered no reply. Just a soft, contented hum.
Outside, the wind stirred the ivy, and sunlight spilled through the stained glass above. Ethan sat quietly for a long time, listening—not just with his ears, but with his whole heart.
Because from now on... he wasn’t alone in his head anymore.