If the guava tree was a man, he’d look really good, Issa thought as she stared out her window. Outside stood a guava tree older than her—tall, but not too tall—with a smooth trunk the color of overmilked coffee. “Tall and lanky… green hair or pink?” she wondered.

Issa had always had an active imagination, preferring to daydream rather than busy herself with the mundane task of chores—as proven by the pile of unfolded clothes on the couch and the broom idle in her hands for far too long. Yes, she’d very much rather imagine a guava man than tidy up her house.

As if summoned by her musings, a low creak echoed from outside. Issa blinked and leaned closer to the window. The guava tree, still moments ago, seemed to tremble—not from the wind, but something deeper, like the earth itself shifting. Her heart skipped as branches twisted and bent, leaves scattering in a flurry. Then, before her stunned gaze, a figure began to emerge from the trunk, stepping forward as if peeling away from the bark.

He was tall—six foot three, just as she’d imagined—with moss-green curls tumbling over his brow and eyes like ripe guava pulp. “Well,” he said, brushing bark dust from his arms, “it’s about time someone noticed.”

Issa gasped, mouth agape as she watched the guava man approach. The broom slipped from her fingers, forgotten. She blinked, and he was closer. Blinked again, and he was now in front of her, separated only by the iron grills of her window… and the concrete wall, of course.

“You’re not real, are you?” she asked, half-believing, half-disbelieving. This was all too amazing. She tilted her head—a full 90 degrees—to meet his gaze.

The guava man tilted his own head to mirror her, a sly smile playing on his lips. “What does ‘real’ even mean?” he replied, voice smooth and warm like honey drizzled on toast. “I’m here, aren’t I? You imagined me into existence.” He tapped the iron grills lightly, the sound sharp and rhythmic. “But if I wasn’t real, how could I do this?”

Before Issa could answer, he reached through the bars and plucked a guava seemingly out of thin air. He held it out to her, its pink flesh glistening as if freshly cut. “Go on,” he teased, “see if the fruit tastes as unreal as I am.”

As if hypnotized, Issa reached for the guava and took a bite. By golly, it was the best-tasting guava she had ever had. “No way!” she exclaimed. “This is so good.” She devoured it, bite after bite, until the entire fruit was gone.

“That fruit,” Guava Man said with a grin, “is my heart. Now it belongs to you.”

Issa froze mid-lick of her fingers, staring at him in horror. “Wait. WHAT?”

He laughed, rich and rolling, the sound bouncing off her tiny house walls. “Relax, I’ve got hundreds more where that came from.” He gestured vaguely to the tree outside. “I’m like... a renewable resource.” Then, leaning in conspiratorially, he added, “But the real twist? You’ve been eating my guavas for years. Every pie, every jam, every bite—it’s been me. And now...” He smirked, reaching for her fallen broom, “you owe me.”

Issa blinked. “Owe you? What do you mean?”

He spun the broom like a cane, fluid as a dancer. “It’s my turn to daydream about you. So… get sweeping, human. My tree needs tidying.”

“Sweeping?” Issa echoed, her voice tinged with disbelief. Then it hit her—this glorious, fruit-scented man wanted her to sweep? Oh no. No, no, no. She chuckled nervously, as if he’d asked her to commit a crime. “Anything but sweeping… and chores.”

Guava Man raised an eyebrow, clearly unimpressed. “Anything but chores? Anything?” He leaned against the iron grills, that devilish smile returning. “Fine. Then how about this: you let me into your house for a day, and I’ll do the sweeping for you.”

Issa narrowed her eyes. “What’s the catch?”

“No catch,” he replied innocently, though his guava-pulp eyes glinted with mischief. “But once I’m in, you’ll have to listen to my stories. Trees see a lot when they’ve been rooted in one place for a hundred years.”

Issa considered this. A beautiful man and a day free of chores? “Deal,” she said, unlocking the door. Under her breath, she added, “This better not involve ghost stories, or I’m tossing you back into the ground.”

And so, in went Guava Man through the front door, tidying the house gracefully, his movements fluid and light as if he danced with every sweep. Issa stood mesmerized, her chin propped in her hand as she watched him. Maybe she could keep Guava Man forever? He’d make a perfect househusband, wouldn’t he?

As if hearing her thoughts, Guava Man glanced over his shoulder with a knowing smile. “Careful, Issa,” he teased, spinning the broom one last time, “I may be good at sweeping, but I’m terrible at staying in one place for too long. Roots don’t hold forever when you pull them up.”

Issa blinked, her daydream wavering. “What do you mean?”

He nodded toward the window, where the guava tree stood tall and steady. “I’m a borrowed miracle,” he said softly. “When the last leaf of my tree falls, I’ll have to go back.”

Her eyes darted to the tree outside. On one branch fluttered a single golden leaf, catching the light as if dipped in sunlight. “How many leaves are left?” she whispered, not sure she wanted to know.

Guava Man smiled faintly. “Enough for one good story… and a little more sweeping.”

Issa watched the golden leaf, her chest tight with a feeling she couldn’t quite name. She turned back to him, watching as he swept the last corner of her tiny home with a flourish, like he was sealing himself into her world for just a little longer.

“Then tell me the story,” she said, voice steady. “I’ll make it the best one yet.”

Guava Man set the broom aside, his smile softening. “Deal,” he said.

And as he began to speak, Issa sat down, ready to listen—because sometimes, even borrowed miracles are worth holding onto, if only for one golden moment.