The set had become almost snuggly familiar.
Harry was in a black hoodie with jeans, walking the shadows of Dead Walkers stage area like a ghost—present but not intrusive. He did not give orders. He didn't call for retakes. He just quietly stood behind Sam Heller, the director of the show, and watched, listened, and absorbed.
Every time Sam re-angled a shot or re-directed a line or called for a less bright light, Harry was taking mental notes.
This was not glamorous. This was precision. This was timing. This was mood. This was blocking. This was pressure.
And Harry loved every minute of it.
He had always believed it was producers wrestling with the burden. And sure, he was still the one assigning budgets, creating schedules, and smoothing contracts. However, to watch a scene play out—to watch a script breath under the arm of a director was something else.
This wasn't simply business.
It was craft.
"Still watching me like a hawk?" Sam asked without looking as he lit a cigarette outside of the soundstage after a long day.
Harry grinned. "I've got more notes than a film student."Harry grinned. "I've got more notes than a film student."
____
Back at JTV Headquarters – Three Days Later
Harry walked into his office late in the afternoon, the earlier storm still ruffling some of his feather, but there was a new bounce in his step. As soon as he sat down, Lisa barged in with a new list of demands, most of which were legit, but two were about re-painting her office again, because "gray is bad for morale."
"Lisa," he interrupted, when she hadn't taken a breath to allow for interjection, "I've got something to tell you."
Lisa stopped. Her brow raised. "Is it more paperwork?"
"Not even close. You're going to Bali. One week. With all expenses paid. Hotel included. Spa vouchers. Take your husband, unplug, don't call me."
Lisa blinked in disbelief. "Wait. This is because of that thing I said about the vending machine peanuts? Because I didn't mean to express my displeasure with the peanuts—"
"You've earned it," Harry said simply. "You've recommitted – double-shifts. Triple shifts, actually! I need you sane when you come back."
But Lisa was still doubtful, "And who is going to do my job while I'm away?"
Harry smiled smugly, "Probably me. But that is a problem for future-Harry."
They locked eyes for a second, then she muttered something that sounded suspiciously like "Don't get yourself killed." Then she dazedly left the room.
The door opened again.
But not Lisa.
It was Rachel Jackson.
Harry looked up from a contract, and froze.
His mom was standing in the doorway - classy as always, wearing a beige trench coat (with gold stitching), with her lips pursed and her eyes unreadable.
"...mom?" Harry said, straightening his back.
She didn't answer. She simply walked in, and sat across from him in the leather chair with her arms crossed.
Silence.
More silence.
Harry was starting to get twitchy.
"Hello mothe—"
"You say hello now?" Rachel snapped, her tone was sharp but low.
Harry winced.
"When was the last time we spoke?" she said.
He tried to think. "Maybe... at my father's funeral?"
Rachel's eyes narrowed. "You were in a coma, then."
Harry coughed. "Right. So... after I woke up from my coma?"
"Why?" she asked sharply.
"I was... busy."
"Busy," she repeated. "Busy with some corporate politics that got you this—" she waved her hand vaguely. "This shithole."
Harry raised a brow. "This isn't a shithole. Not anymore."
Rachel stared at him. Then, as if some kind of pressure had just dissipated in the room she laughed.
"I know. And that's the problem," she said. "You turned this place around so quickly, half the Board nearly had a collective heart attack at your half-year report. You should've seen their faces—like someone folded up a blanket in the shape of your father and then blew on it and it came back to life."
Harry blinked. Her attitude shifted so rapidly he had emotional whiplash.
"You are not angry?"
"Oh, I am angry," she said now smiling, almost proudly. "But I am proud as well. I didn't think you had this in you. None of us did."
Harry hesitated, "Then... why are you here?"
Rachel's face softened. The smile fell away.
"I'm here," she said slowly, "because I miss my son."
Harry stiffened.
Rachel's eyes glistened with emotion. "You don't call. You don't write. You were in a coma. You woke up... different. You work like a machine. You don't laugh the same. You don't talk to me like you used to."
She looked down. "I know something's changed. I don't know what. But I feel it. And it hurts, because I keep thinking—maybe the boy that woke up from that hospital bed, isn't really my son anymore."
Harry's chest constricted.
She was right.
She was completely right.
He wasn't her son. Not really. At least not in fantasy like she remembered.
Harry Jackson, the real Harry, was dead. He—whoever he really was—was just the man taking his name, his face, and his life. And now his mother... the real Harry's mother... was looking at him... expecting a connection that was not there.