Every night, the architects worked in silence, shaping the dreams of mortals. Their hands were deft, mouldng shadows into whispers and light into longing. It was a job without fanfare, but it kept the world sane. An architect, with kind eyes, laugh lines and a tired smile, found himself drawn to a dreamer. Her dreams were warm, paintings of sunlit beaches and poems of salt laden winds. He lingered in her dreams longer than he should, crafting scenes of a life she never knew she wanted.

The rules were simple: observe, create, but never interfere. Though rules, like hearts, can be fragile things. The architect began to leave pieces of himself in her dreams, a laugh, a hand brushing hers, a memory lingering by the sea. She began to feel his presence. She began to search for it. He should’ve stopped, but the draw of her dreams was too strong.

One night, she turned in her dream and looked at him. Truly looked.

“You don’t belong here,” she said, her voice soft like the tide.

He wanted to speak but could not. To break the veil was forbidden. Yet, her gaze held him, and something in the dream shifted and a bridge formed where none should exist.

The dream dissolved with the dawn and the architect did not return to the workshop. He walked, fearless, into the waking world instead, seeking her, knowing it would break them both. Some loves, like dreams, cannot last. Sometimes they are worth the fall.