Chapter Text
There were eleven days left until the next rent payment, and the money he had wouldn’t even cover half of it. Winter crept in through the cracks of the window, cold and sharp, mirroring the chill in his bank account.
Alex Claremont-Diaz put his phone down and looked around his small Brooklyn apartment. On the bookshelf, law textbooks stood neatly side by side with the awkward accumulation of everything else his life had turned into over the years—temporary press badges from TV stations, a few books on acting theory, a stack of printed commercial scripts, and a framed graduation photo from Georgetown Law. In the picture, the young man in his cap and gown was smiling with the unearned confidence of someone who believed the world was his to win.
That was six years ago.
His phone buzzed again—the landlord’s routine reminder text. Alex didn’t open it. He flipped the phone face down on the table. Spread across the tabletop were a handful of loose papers: an invitation to write for a community newspaper, the pay laughably low; a brochure for door-to-door health supplement sales; and a part-time registration form for an online legal consultation platform.
He leaned back in his chair and stared off into the distance. After graduating, he’d worked as a criminal defense lawyer for two years, only to take the fall for a case marred by procedural flaws in the evidence. When he left the firm, he’d been sure he’d find another job quickly. It turned out he’d been far too optimistic. That world—one that cared about winning more than right or wrong—never opened its doors to him again.
So he drifted. TV show writer. Background actor. Host for small programs. Commercial model. Freelance legal consultant. Newspaper contributor. Salesman. Each job felt like trying on clothes that never quite fit. None of them lasted longer than a year; the shortest barely three weeks. New York didn’t believe in tears, but it was very good at manufacturing anxiety. Rent. Utilities. Phone bills. Health insurance. Student loan reminders. None of them paused just because you were out of work.
It was seven in the morning. The sky outside the window was slowly brightening. Alex stood up and pulled a dark gray suit from his closet, freshly pressed. He’d bought it when he first joined the law firm, spending more than half a month’s salary on it. It still fit perfectly. Even the cuffs showed no sign of wear.
At ten a.m., in Midtown Manhattan, he had an interview.
He’d come across the job listing by accident. It was suspiciously brief: Actors wanted. Generous pay. Strong adaptability required. Performance experience preferred. An email address followed. When Alex sent in his résumé, he hadn’t expected much. He’d done a few commercials, hosted a handful of shows—he supposed that barely counted as “experience.” Still, three days later, he’d received a reply.
He looked at himself in the mirror. Twenty-eight years old. Dark hair, dark eyes, dark skin. The suit made him look steady and professional—at least on the surface. He adjusted his tie, pulled on his coat, and stepped out the door.
The subway rattled its way from Brooklyn into Manhattan. Alex squeezed in with the morning commuters, instinctively picking up his pace. According to the address, the office was in a Midtown high-rise: sixteenth floor, Room 1608.
When he arrived, only a young woman was at the front desk, answering a call. She glanced up at him and pointed toward the conference room. “Ms. Holleran is waiting for you.”
He went in. Nora Holleran was standing with her back to the door, dressed in a sharply tailored black suit, looking more like a corporate executive than anything else. Alex knocked lightly. She turned, shook his hand, and said, “Alex Claremont-Diaz?”—a confirmation, not a question—before gesturing for him to sit.
“Yes,” Alex said, nodding as he took his seat.
Nora opened the folder in front of her, her gaze moving down a long list of work experience. “Master’s degree from Georgetown Law. Two years as a criminal defense attorney. And then…” She paused. “A fairly extensive series of career experiments.”
“You could put it that way,” Alex said, keeping his smile in place.
“Why are you applying for this position?”
He’d prepared an answer—I’m interested in acting, I want to explore a new field—but when the moment came, he told the truth instead. “I need a job. The listing said the pay was good.”
Nora smiled, as if she appreciated the directness. “Honesty. Not bad. But this job requires more than that.” She closed the folder. “We’re not looking for actors to shoot commercials or perform on stage. We’re a company that provides customized interpersonal solutions. More specifically, we’re hired by clients to have our employees step into certain roles, in order to help them resolve specific problems in their lives.”
Alex blinked. “Step into roles?”
“Yes. For example, acting as a temporary boyfriend for a family gathering. Acting as a professional to provide identity support in certain situations. Acting as a long-lost relative to visit an elderly person living alone. Things like that.” Nora spoke calmly. “We call ourselves ‘life actors.’”
“Isn’t that… lying?” he asked before he could stop himself.
“That’s a fair question.” Nora leaned back in her chair. “We discuss it with every candidate. Our principles are simple: no illegal activity, no harm to third parties, and every commission must be motivated by goodwill. We help people who temporarily need a certain role to get through a difficult moment. Elderly people need companionship. Children need role models. Lonely people need friends. What we provide is a service, not a scam.”
Alex was quiet for a few seconds. “How do you know the commissions are really well-intentioned?”
“We have strict procedures and standards. Of course, nothing is ever one hundred percent certain. That’s why we need employees with good judgment.” Nora looked at him. “Your résumé shows a legal background—you understand boundaries. You have performance experience—you know how to inhabit a role. And you’ve done a wide range of jobs—that tells me you’re adaptable.”
“…And the pay?” Alex asked.
Nora named a number. Alex drew in a sharp breath. It was higher than anything he’d earned from freelance work.
“How long do these assignments usually last?”
“It depends. Some are just a few hours—say, acting as a date for dinner. Others can last weeks or even months. We pay based on duration and complexity. There’s an hourly base rate, plus bonuses for special cases.”
Alex glanced out the window. He thought about the rent. About next month’s bills. About the pitiful number in his bank account.
“What would I need to do?” he asked.
Nora nodded. “First, complete our training program. You’ll learn role-based fundamentals, safety protocols, psychological adjustment, and how to disengage after an assignment. Then we’ll start you on smaller commissions and evaluate your performance. If all goes well, you’ll join our core team.” She paused. “But I need to be clear—this job isn’t easy. You’ll be playing someone else while making sure you don’t lose yourself. You’ll be offering emotional support without becoming over-involved. It takes patience and discipline.”
At least it was better than selling health supplements. Or at least, less self-loathing.
“When do I star?” he asked.
***
The training lasted two weeks. It covered role-playing techniques—how to quickly grasp a character’s background, habits, and speech patterns—how to handle unexpected situations, how to step out of a role once the job ended, and the company’s strict safety rules: no personal relationships with clients, no disclosure of commission details, no accepting additional payment.
“Remember,” the instructor emphasized in the final session, “you’re not liars. You’re a bridge. A client needs a bridge to cross a cliff, and you are that bridge. Once they’ve crossed safely, your job is done. Don’t stay on the other side, and don’t try to become part of it.”
Alex nodded, though a question lingered in his mind: Does a bridge know it’s a bridge?
His first official assignment came two weeks later. The client was a woman who wanted Alex to play her boyfriend at her best friend’s wedding. The reason was practical enough—she’d just ended a five-year relationship and didn’t want to be pitied or overly fussed over at the wedding, nor did she want her ex to think she was doing badly.
Alex went. He wore a suit, brought an appropriate gift, and behaved with polite warmth throughout the ceremony. He followed the training: listen, respond at the right moments, pay attention to body language. He danced with the client once, chatted with her friends. The wedding was beautiful—champagne, flowers, laughter. When it was over, the client walked him to the hotel entrance and thanked him.
That night, back in his apartment, a sudden emptiness settled in. It wasn’t exhaustion, but a sense of detachment. He’d lived as someone else for four hours, and now that role was gone, leaving only himself—and the extra money in his account.
More assignments followed, one after another. He played the father of a single mother’s daughter, attending a kindergarten family day. The five-year-old held his hand and called him “Dad,” and he crouched down to hug her. He played a journalist, interviewing a ninety-year-old writer who hadn’t published anything new in years and had all but been forgotten. Alex listened carefully, making the man feel seen again. He played a lawyer, giving legal advice to a mother being unfairly evicted by her landlord. He played a friend, showing up in support at the opening of an unknown painter’s exhibition.
He quickly became one of the company’s most efficient “life actors.” Nora started giving him more complex commissions. “You have a certain quality,” she told him. “Clients trust you. You come across as upbeat and sincere—and more importantly, as if that sincerity isn’t an act.”
The numbers in his bank account grew. Rent stopped being a problem. He even managed to save a little. But he began to lose sleep. Lying in bed, he thought about faces—the little girl who’d called him Dad, the forgotten old writer, the mother afraid of losing her home, the young painter desperate to be noticed, the elderly woman in a hospital room. Had he helped them? Maybe. But what he’d given them was temporary—an illusion that would eventually fade.
Was this a benevolent lie, or a carefully packaged deception, frosted with good intentions and set inside a bubble?
Nora noticed his state. “Moral dilemma?” she asked.
Alex hesitated, then nodded. “Sometimes I wonder if I’m giving them false hope. The problems aren’t really solved—I’m just covering them up for a while.”
“The problems may not be solved,” Nora said, “but you’re not there to solve them. You’re there to offer companionship, support, or simply a stretch of time that’s a little easier to endure. That’s not false hope, Alex. That’s real comfort.”
“But how long does comfort last?”
“Nothing lasts forever,” Nora said, meeting his eyes. “But temporary kindness is still kindness.”
Alex knew she had a point, yet some part of him remained unconvinced. The job paid his bills and freed him from constant survival anxiety, but it didn’t answer the deeper question: what did he actually want to do? What counted as meaningful?
He kept taking assignments, growing more practiced—slipping into roles quickly, stepping out of them just as cleanly. He bought two more suits. When he renewed his lease, he paid six months upfront. The balance in his bank account stabilized. On the surface, he was doing fine.
Until one afternoon, Nora called.
“There’s a new commission,” she said. “It’s… unusual. The pay is very high, and so are the requirements. The client is flying in from London and wants to meet in person. Are you free tomorrow morning?”
Alex checked his calendar. “I am. What’s the assignment?”
“It’s hard to explain over the phone,” Nora said after a pause. “But I think this one may require every skill you have. We’ll discuss the details when you meet. Tomorrow at ten, conference room.”
“All right. I’ll be there.”
After hanging up, Alex walked to the window. High pay. High demands. A client flying in from London. He had no idea what it would be, but a quiet instinct told him this would be different from everything before.
He opened his closet and took out the dark gray suit, checking for any creases that needed pressing. Then he looked at himself in the mirror and practiced a gentle, professional, trustworthy smile—the standard expression of a “life actor.” The man in the mirror looked reliable, composed, as if everything were under control.
***
Alex arrived at the office ten minutes early. Nora led him into a more formal conference room.
“The client for this job—Henry Fox—is already on his way,” Nora said. “He’s here on behalf of his father. His father is Arthur Fox, the famous British actor who once played James Bond.”
Alex stopped in his tracks, his eyes widening. “James Bond?”
“Yes, the James Bond you know,” Nora replied.
Alex could hardly believe it. Nora gave his arm a gentle pat, signaling him to follow. “Calm down, Alex. You look like you’re about to meet the British royal family.”
“What’s the difference?” he replied.
“No difference. Whether it’s the King or Bond, your job is to not mess up,” Nora shrugged. “Good luck.”
Alex took a deep breath to calm the sudden rush of his heartbeat.
James Bond. He really was in deep trouble now.
When Henry Fox walked into the conference room, Alex momentarily spaced out. His blond hair was neatly combed, and he wore a tailored dark blue coat with a light gray cashmere sweater underneath. His features were so exquisite they were almost sculpted, but the corners of his eyes carried the marks of fatigue, and his lips were turned down slightly. Alex immediately understood why he was the son of a movie star. He felt as if he could hardly breathe.
“Mr. Fox, welcome,” Nora stepped forward to shake his hand, then introduced him. “This is one of our finest actors, Alex Claremont-Diaz.”
Henry shook Alex’s hand. Alex noticed his hand was cold. Henry smiled at him, and Alex’s heartbeat nearly skipped a beat.
Stay calm, he told himself. You’re just talking to Bond’s son. It’s no big deal, right?
Henry took off his coat and sat across from them. His posture was straight, his accent elegant, and his tone steady. “Thank you both. This is very important to my father, and I need to ensure every detail is properly handled.”
Alex maintained a polite smile, though for a moment, he thought his face might freeze from the effort.
“My father, Arthur Fox, used to be an actor,” Henry began. “You may have heard of him—his most famous role was James Bond.”
“Of course!” Nora laughed. “The classic ones.”
“He…” Henry paused, his hands clasped on the table, as though hesitating—or perhaps uneasy. “Three years ago, he was diagnosed with Alzheimer’s. His condition has worsened significantly since last year, and now he often gets confused about time and people.” His gaze became distant when talking about his father’s condition.
Alex opened his notebook and began jotting down notes.
“His closest friend was American director Michael Lawrence. They worked together several times. A few years ago, they co-wrote a comedy script titled A Day and a Half of Good Dreams, which was meant to be a stage play, but it was never completed. Mr. Lawrence passed away five years ago, but my father seems to have forgotten this fact. Recently, he’s been frequently bringing up Michael, believing that he’s still alive, and is convinced they need to finish that comedy.”
Nora asked, “So, you want us to have someone play Michael Lawrence?”
Henry shook his head. “Not exactly. If Mr. Lawrence were still alive, he’d be in his sixties. It wouldn’t be realistic for someone young to play an elderly man in his eighties. I’d prefer it if one of your actors could play Michael’s protégé—a young director—to help my father finish the work.”
Alex interjected, “Mr. Fox, may I ask, what is your father’s cognitive state right now? Can he distinguish between strangers?”
“Please, call me Henry,” he corrected, then answered, “His memory fluctuates. Some days, he’s almost completely lucid, can recognize me, and remembers things from the past. Other days, he doesn’t even know who I am. But lately, he’s been remembering Michael and their script.” He took out a folder and handed Alex a few photos. One photo, faded and in color, showed two young men laughing next to a camera. One was a handsome blond man with his arm around the shoulder of a dark-haired man.
“This was taken on set in the seventies,” Henry said. “Michael was a Latinx independent film director. I’ve told my father that Michael is ill and can’t come to the UK, but that he sent his trusted protégé to help him finish the work.”
Alex studied the photo carefully. “What specific preparations do I need to make?” he asked.
Henry retrieved more materials from the folder. “These are some of Michael’s works, his directing style, and reviews of the films he made with my father. I also brought a draft of A Day and a Half of Good Dreams.”
Alex flipped through the materials, sensing that this job was much more complex and significant. This wasn’t a simple few-hour role-playing gig—it was likely to involve weeks of deep interaction. He looked up at Henry. “How long will this project last?”
Henry’s expression grew more complicated. “The doctors say his condition is worsening rapidly. It could be six months, or it could be a year… he doesn’t have much time left. Having a play performed is his greatest wish now.”
The room fell into a brief silence. Alex stared at the photo in his hand and then looked up at Henry’s worried face, feeling a fierce internal struggle. This job was far more complex than any he’d taken before, with much deeper emotional stakes.
“As for the compensation,” Nora broke the silence, “we’ll follow the special project rates. If travel is required, all expenses are covered.”
Henry nodded. “The payment isn’t a problem. If the performance goes well, I’ll pay a substantial bonus. I just want my father to be able to fulfill this wish.”
But Alex wasn’t thinking about the money. Participating in a delusion for an Alzheimer’s patient—was that helping, or was it deception? When Arthur Fox suddenly becomes lucid one day and realizes Michael has long since passed, how much damage would the shattering of this beautiful illusion cause?
“Mr. Fox… Henry,” Alex asked, “Have you considered that, one day, your father might suddenly wake up and realize all of this is fake…”
Henry lowered his head and shook it. “I’ve thought about it. Every day. My father lives in a world full of regret and unfinished dreams. If we can give him some comfort and happiness, even if it’s based on some level of… fiction, it’s still worth it.”
Nora nodded in agreement. “That aligns with our principles.”
Alex looked at the photo of Arthur Fox’s radiant smile, then at Henry’s worried face, feeling the internal balance gradually shift.
Maybe Nora was right—sometimes the value of good intentions transcends the boundaries between reality and fiction.
“How much time do I have to decide?” Alex asked.
“I’d like to start as soon as possible. I’ll be flying back to London the day after tomorrow, so if you accept the assignment, it would be best if you could come to the UK next week to begin preparations. My father’s condition is unstable, and I don’t know how much longer he’ll be lucid.”
After a moment of silence, Alex made his decision. “I accept.”
Nora smiled with satisfaction. “Then we’ll begin preparing the contract details. Alex, you’ll need to adjust your schedule for the next two weeks.”
After the meeting, Henry stood up. “Thank you for taking this assignment. It’s not just a job for me.”
Alex nodded. “I understand.”
Henry gave him the first real smile Alex had seen, and Alex almost felt that smile held a sense of gratitude. But he felt uneasy—he hadn’t done anything yet.
Once Henry left, Nora turned to him. “This assignment is important. If you do well, it could lead to more clients.”
Alex looked at her. “You always prioritize business.”
“It’s my job. Your job is to focus on the role. Remember, no matter how high-profile the client, they come to us because they have a need. In that regard, everyone is equal.”
Alex gathered the materials Henry had left behind, with the top item being a recent photo of Arthur Fox. Compared to his younger self, he still exuded elegance, but his eyes held a hint of confusion. Alex sighed, feeling as though a heavy burden had been placed on his shoulders.
On his way home, Alex couldn’t help but think: When a person begins to lose their memory, what is real? Is it the objective events that happened, or the emotions they feel? In Arthur Fox’s world, Michael Lawrence was still alive. So, was his role simply to preserve that positive memory?
This thought gave him a small sense of comfort. As the streetlights of New York blinked on one by one, he quickened his pace, blending into the evening crowd.
***
The plane landed at Heathrow Airport, and London was shrouded in a gray morning fog. Alex gathered his carry-on luggage—an overstuffed suitcase filled not only with personal items but mainly research materials about Michael Lawrence, scripts, and the “character file” that Nora had prepared for him.
For the past week, he had practically lived in the film archives section of the New York Public Library. He watched all seven films directed by Michael Lawrence, read every interview he could find, and even dug up Lawrence’s student works from his time at New York University. He learned that Michael liked to drink black coffee without sugar in the editing room, and that he occasionally slipped Spanish words into his speech. He took notes on all these details, marking them with different colored pens.
During the first week, Henry didn’t schedule a formal meeting with Arthur for Alex. He needed to get familiar with the surroundings first, and Henry needed time to gradually introduce his arrival to his father. This arrangement gave him a slight sense of relief.
After retrieving his luggage, he stepped out into the arrivals hall, where he spotted Henry right away. Henry was standing at the edge of the crowd of greeters, dressed in a dark gray cashmere coat, with a blue-gray scarf wrapped around his neck. He looked a little thinner than when Alex had seen him in New York.
“Mr. Fox,” Alex walked up to him.
Henry gave a slight nod. “Was the flight smooth?”
“Smooth. Thank you for arranging the flight.”
On the way to the apartment, there was almost no conversation in the car. Henry focused on driving, while Alex gazed out at the London streets. The winter in London, much like New York, was dreary, but the architectural styles were different: red-brick houses, white window frames, black railings—everything appeared more compact and ancient.
“My father’s condition…” Henry paused, seemingly choosing his words carefully. “It’s been more unstable lately. Last week, he spent three days thinking it was 1978, and he kept looking for his agent to discuss the next Bond movie contract.”
“Does this happen often?”
“More frequently.” Henry shook his head. “The doctors adjusted his medication, but the results have been limited. Sometimes, he only has a few hours of clarity.”
“I understand,” Alex said, although he didn’t fully understand. He had never dealt deeply with Alzheimer’s patients, and this was the biggest challenge for him.
The apartment was on the top floor of a Victorian building, with the living room windows facing a quiet small square. A few trees, stripped of their leaves, appeared withered in the rain. They stood in the middle of the living room, feeling somewhat awkward.
“Is this… suitable?” Henry asked him.
“It’s great. Better than my apartment in New York,” Alex said. That was the truth.
“That’s good. If you want, I can take you around the neighborhood tomorrow to get familiar with the area.”
“I want to start working as soon as possible.”
“I know.” Henry looked at him. “But I need to talk to my father about you first. Showing up suddenly might scare him.”
Alex nodded. “Alright. I’ll follow your lead.”
After Henry left, Alex stood by the living room window, looking out at the square below.
A wave of intense loneliness suddenly washed over him—being in a strange city, playing a stranger to a stranger. The thought almost made him want to pack his bags and fly back to New York.
But his bank account balance, the reputation of the company… and Henry’s look when he spoke, all reminded him that he couldn’t do that.
Over the next few days, Henry sent him short daily emails updating him on Arthur’s condition: “Father’s doing better today, recognized me.” “He asked about Michael today, I told him you’d be here soon.”
It wasn’t until a week later, one morning, that Henry sent a new message: “If you’re free this afternoon, you can meet my father. He’s in a good mood today and even mentioned the script at breakfast.”
Alex’s heartbeat quickened as he read the email. He replied: “Okay, what time is good?”
“Three o’clock. I’ll get there early, and we can talk outside first.”
At 2:30 p.m., Alex dressed in the clothes he had prepared—a pair of dark trousers, a light blue shirt, and a brown leather jacket. This was the outfit he had chosen after studying photographs of Michael Lawrence: casual but polished, with the feel of an artist without being overdone. He checked his appearance, took a deep breath, and left the apartment.
When he arrived at the address, Henry was already waiting outside.
“He just woke up from his nap,” Henry told him. “The caregiver said his condition is the best it’s been in weeks. He clearly remembered my name and even asked about you.”
“He asked about me?”
“I told him Michael sent an assistant, and he seemed pleased.” Henry’s expression was complicated. “But you should be prepared—his reaction might be completely different from what you expect.”
Alex nodded. “I understand.”
Henry opened the door, and the two of them entered the hallway. “He’s in the study,” Henry said. “Follow me.”
The study was at the back of the first floor, the door half-open. Henry knocked gently. “Father?”
“Come in, Henry,” came the clear, gentle voice from inside.
Henry pushed the door open, and Alex followed him into the room.
The study was spacious, with two walls lined from floor to ceiling with bookshelves, packed with books. The opposite wall was all windows, overlooking a small garden. The fire in the fireplace crackled gently, its warmth filling the room. Arthur Fox sat in an armchair beside the fire, a woolen blanket draped over his lap. He held an open hardcover book in his hands, but his eyes were fixed on the door.
Alex’s first impression was: he was still handsome. Even though his golden hair had turned silvery-white, neatly combed, his features remained sharply defined, and his blue eyes still sparkled. He wore a crisply ironed shirt and a wool vest, looking nothing like a 75-year-old patient but more like a retired professor on holiday.
“Father, this is the assistant I mentioned to you,” Henry said, his tone casual. “Sent by Mr. Michael Lawrence.”
Alex stepped forward and extended his hand. “Mr. Fox, it’s an honor to meet you. My name—”
“My goodness.” Arthur interrupted, his eyes suddenly widening.
Alex’s hand froze in mid-air. He glanced at Henry, who also looked confused.
Arthur put down the book and slowly stood up, the blanket sliding off his lap. He walked toward Alex, scrutinizing his face. His gaze wasn’t one of a stranger but as if he were trying to place someone from his memory.
“It can’t be…” Arthur muttered, then suddenly laughed, his smile bright. “Little Michael? Is it really you?”
Alex was completely stunned. All the lines he had prepared—the ones about being Michael’s work partner, about coming to help finish the script—got stuck in his throat. He looked toward Henry, silently pleading for help. Henry clearly hadn’t anticipated this: “Father, are you saying—”
“Michael’s child!” Arthur exclaimed excitedly, grabbing Alex’s arm. “You look just like him when he was young! The last time I saw you… how old were you? Fifteen? Sixteen?”
Alex felt his hand trembling slightly, but it was held firmly. He quickly adjusted his expression, offering a cautious smile. “Mr. Fox, I—”
“Call me Arthur, for heaven’s sake.” Arthur released his grip and turned to Henry, beaming. “Henry, you didn’t tell me Michael sent his own son! This is amazing, it’s better than anything!”
Henry opened his mouth but closed it again. Alex’s brain was working in overdrive.
“Father,” Henry finally said, “Are you sure? This is—”
“Of course I’m sure!” Arthur’s tone was that of a child being questioned, and he turned back to Alex. “How is your father? He never mentioned you were involved in this project in his letter.”
Alex looked into Arthur’s hopeful eyes, then glanced at Henry.
“He… he’s fine,” Alex said cautiously. “He’s just getting older and has trouble traveling, so he sent me to help.”
“Ah, yes, we’re all getting old,” Arthur sighed. “But you’ve come, and that’s enough. Your father said he sent the most suitable person, but I never expected it would be you. How’s your mother? Is she well?”
Alex’s mind scrambled through the details. Michael Lawrence’s wife, Isabel, had passed away from cancer ten years ago.
“She’s well, thank you.” He chose a safe answer.
“Sit, sit,” Arthur motioned to another armchair. “We need to have a proper chat. Your father said you’re also in the film industry?”
Alex and Henry sat down. Arthur looked at Alex, signaling for him to continue.
This wasn’t part of the plan. Alex screamed internally. No one had told him he’d be facing an unexpected situation right from the start. And Henry was silent, simply watching him—what an incompetent partner!
“Yes, mainly some independent productions,” Alex said. “My father mentioned you had a special project that needed help.”
“A Day and a Half of Good Dreams,” Arthur’s eyes lit up. “You know this script? Your father must have mentioned it.”
“He mentioned a little, but he said you were the one who knew it best.”
Arthur laughed. “He’s still like that, always giving credit to others. But you’re right, this script… it’s like my child, Michael and my child. Ah, what a coincidence, his child and my child are going to finish ‘our’ child! How wonderful this is…”
For the next half hour, Arthur spoke non-stop about the creation process of the script—how in the nineties, he and Michael had clashed creatively; how they wrote scenes during breaks in shooting films; how scheduling conflicts, funding issues, and interference from production companies had caused the project to be repeatedly postponed.
Alex listened intently, occasionally asking questions, showing the right amount of interest. Arthur’s memory was unusually sharp on certain details—he could accurately describe a painting on a café wall, remember the coffee Michael had ordered, and even recite a few lines of dialogue. But when it came to the timeline, he would confuse events from different years, mixing up the eighties with the nineties.
Henry remained mostly silent, only occasionally adding something.
“I’ll go make some tea,” Henry finally stood up. “Alex, would you like tea? Coffee?”
“Tea’s fine, thank you,” Alex replied.
Arthur looked up, furrowing his brow in confusion. “Alex?”
The room fell silent for a few seconds, the only sound coming from the crackling fire.
Alex’s mind was racing. Henry looked at him, his eyes flashing with a hint of panic.
Alex momentarily forgot how to respond.
“It’s Alexander,” Henry suddenly said. “Alex is his nickname. His full name is Alexander Michael Lawrence.”
Arthur’s expression shifted from confusion to realization. “Ah, yes… yes, Alexander. Your father always liked those formal names. So should I call you Alex or Alexander?”
“Alex is fine,” Alex said, feeling a thin layer of sweat form on his back. “That’s what my friends call me.”
“Good, Alex.” Arthur smiled. “That name suits you.”
Henry sighed with relief, turning to head into the kitchen. “I’ll make the tea.”
Once Henry left the room, Arthur leaned back in his chair, still watching Alex, his eyes full of memories. “You know, your father and I used to discuss what he’d name his son if he had one. He said, if it were a boy, he’d name him Alexander. He said it sounded like a strong name, one for a fighter.”
Alex felt an inexplicable pang of guilt. “Really?”
“Yes. Your father was a visionary. He could always see things others couldn’t. I think he named you that because he wanted you to become someone like that.”
“I hope I don’t disappoint him.”
Arthur nodded, then suddenly asked, “Have you and your parents made up?”
Alex froze. “What?”
“Michael told me,” Arthur said, his expression turning a little sad, “that you had some strained relations for a while. You… went down the wrong path.”
Alex had no idea about this information. Nothing in his research on Michael Lawrence mentioned anything about a son. In fact, the materials only showed that Michael had a daughter, who now lived in Seattle and had two children. But clearly, in Arthur’s memory, there existed a “Little Michael,” and this “Little Michael” had family troubles.
“We… we’re fine.” Alex chose a vague answer.
“That’s good,” Arthur seemed satisfied with the answer. “Family is the most important thing. I always tell Henry, work, fame, achievements—those are all fleeting. Only family is eternal.”
Henry returned with a tray holding three cups of tea and a small plate of cookies. As he placed the tray down, he glanced at Alex, his eyes silently asking, “Is everything okay?”
Alex gave a slight nod.
They drank their tea and continued chatting. Arthur asked Alex where he was staying, whether he liked London, and what his initial thoughts on the script were. Alex did his best to respond using the knowledge he’d gained from his research. Arthur listened intently, nodding occasionally.
“Michael’s judgment was right,” Arthur said to Henry. “Alex really is the perfect choice. He not only looks like Michael, but even his manner of speaking and thinking is similar.”
Henry smiled. “I think so too.”
At four o’clock, the caregiver knocked on the door, reminding Arthur it was time for his medication. Arthur frowned. “Already time?”
“Yes, Mr. Fox. And then you need to rest for a bit, as the doctor instructed.”
Arthur reluctantly nodded and turned to Alex. “You’ll come again tomorrow, right?”
Alex looked at Henry.
“Of course,” Henry said. “Alex will be staying in London for a while, rehearsing the script with me.”
“Good,” Arthur stood up and once again shook Alex’s hand. “Tomorrow we begin work. I’ll have Henry get the full draft of the script—at least the most complete version I can find.”
“I’m looking forward to it,” Alex said.
As he left the study, Alex glanced back. Arthur stood before the bookshelves, his fingers lightly brushing over a row of spines.
Henry escorted him to the door, and they stopped in the hallway.
“Earlier…” Alex began.
“I know,” Henry interrupted, lowering his voice. “I didn’t expect him to react like that.”
“No. I meant, did this ‘Little Michael’ really exist? I never found anything in the public records.”
Henry sighed. “Michael did have a son, but that son… the situation is complicated.”
“What do you mean by complicated?”
Henry hesitated. “Michael did have a son, also named Michael. He got involved with drugs as a teenager and cut ties with the family. Michael rarely spoke of him. I don’t know why Father suddenly remembered him and mistook you for him.”
Alex processed the information. “So now I’m the drug-addicted, estranged son?”
“No,” Henry said quickly. “You’re not him. You just… happened to be mistaken for him.”
“Your father just asked me if I’ve ‘made up’ with my family.”
“Maybe Michael mentioned the issue of his children to him.”
“But does this identity even help?” Alex couldn’t help but question.
“Little Michael hasn’t had any contact with the family since. Father likely has no idea what happened after that. At least, this gives you… a lot of room to maneuver.”
Alex leaned his head in his hands. “But what if he asks about the details? Like why I suddenly reconciled with my father? Or what I’ve been doing these past years?”
“We’ll make up a plausible story together,” Henry said. “The important thing is to make Father happy and help him finish this script. Everything else doesn’t matter.”
Alex looked at Henry, seeing his firm determination.
“Alright, I’ll be ready,” Alex finally said.
Henry nodded, his expression relaxing. “Thank you. You handled it well today.”
“It was instinctive,” Alex admitted.
“Good instinct,” Henry nodded. “Same time tomorrow? I’ll have the draft ready in advance.”
“Alright.”
As Alex left the house, evening had fallen in London, and the streetlights glowed in yellow halos through the misty rain. He tightened his jacket and walked down the damp sidewalk toward his apartment. His mind replayed every detail of the afternoon—the surprise when Arthur recognized him, the crisis over his name, and the spark in Arthur’s eyes when he spoke about the script.
He had originally prepared to play Michael Lawrence’s apprentice, a professional role. But now, he was thrust into a more intimate, complicated identity: the son of an old friend, a returnee reconciled with his family, a young man carrying the weight of unfinished dreams.
The weight of this role was heavier than he’d anticipated.
Back at his apartment, Alex opened his notebook and began recording all the details of the day. At the top of the page, he wrote: “Character Update: Alexander Michael Lawrence. Son of Michael Lawrence. Had a strained relationship with family, now reconciled. Works in the film industry, independent productions. Sent by father to assist in completing A Day and a Half of Good Dreams.”
He paused, thought for a moment, and added:
“Arthur Fox seems particularly invested in this character.”
Then he closed the notebook and walked to the window. The rain had stopped, and water droplets clung to the glass, refracting the outside lights into blurry orbs.
He had no idea where all this would lead. It felt more unsettling than anything he’d done in the past two years.