Samuel was thirteen when his world flipped upside down. One regular day, his class got shuffled, and suddenly he was sitting in a strange room with faces he didn’t know. That’s when he saw her. She didn’t speak much, but there was something about her—quiet, steady, just there. Before long, walking home together turned into the highlight of his day. He found himself paying more attention to her than to his own life, like he was studying some secret blueprint.

Months passed, and Samuel’s thoughts only got messier. In his head, he had this whole council—pieces of himself arguing back and forth. Fear, logic, hope, impulse; he’d always counted on them to help sort out the world, even if they made a lot of noise. When she started to drift away and their talks faded, those voices grew louder. They picked apart every word, warning him not to get lost in wishful thinking.

A year later, Samuel barely recognized himself. What started as admiration had turned heavy, almost painful. He called himself the “Foolish Architect”—a kid building whole lives in his mind, none of them real. That’s when Dusk showed up. Dusk wasn’t a person, more like a shadow—an icy, cutting version of his own doubts. Suddenly his inner council felt unfamiliar, even threatening. Samuel wondered if he’d created the storm he was now caught in.

School events, loneliness, awkward run-ins—everything seemed to push him further into his own head. By prom night, things broke. He found himself lost in a strange dream, wandering through a crumbling temple he’d built himself, finally seeing the truths he’d dodged for so long.

Letting go wasn’t dramatic. He just admitted to himself how he felt and accepted it wasn’t going to be returned. The final talk with her closed the chapter, but didn’t feel like a win—more like letting out a long breath after holding it in for too long.

When he walked into high school orientation, something had changed. He wasn’t chasing after someone else anymore. For once, he felt like he could build something real. Not as the Foolish Architect, but as himself—ready to start, finally, on his own future.

Still fleeing from the shape that wore his face.


He burst through the front door of the house—and the world lurched.


The room was smaller. The air thinner. Everything carried the dull softness of the past. A younger Samuel sat on the bed, no older than second or third grade, shoulders shaking as he cried quietly into his hands.


He turned and rushed toward the door, but when he opened it, he was back inside the house again. The same walls. The same layout. Only… older. Or rather, younger. Five or six years younger.


He understood then. He was still dreaming.


Curiosity pulled him forward despite himself.


Young Samuel wiped his tears and slowly lowered his hands from his face.


The child's eyes were pitch black. Empty. Too still.


Before Samuel could react, the child's shadow peeled itself away from the floor and swallowed him whole. The room darkened. The shadow thickened, stretching and reshaping itself.


And from it stepped the figure Samuel had been running from.


Samuel stumbled backward and collapsed to the floor, clamping his hands over his ears, squeezing his eyes shut.


"You're not real," he said over and over. "You're not real. You're just a dream. You're nothing."


"Do you know how long I've waited for you to acknowledge me?"


Samuel couldn't move. His body refused to listen.


"You knew I was there," the voice continued. "You always did. You just buried me."


He sat upright in his bed, lungs burning, heart pounding. Morning light crept through the window. The house was quiet. Ordinary.


Samuel believed that was the end of it. That nightmares stayed where they belonged.


What he didn't understand yet was simpler—and far more unsettling.


Because in truth, Samuel was the shadow.


Samuel stumbled into the bathroom and splashed cold water onto his face. He stared at his reflection longer than necessary, half-expecting it to move on its own.


"It was just a dream," he muttered. "Nothing more."


But dreams don't choose images without reason.


And Samuel wouldn't understand what that night was trying to tell him until much later.


Chapter 9 - chapter 1 Act 3