_Every night, the architects shape the dreams of the mortals, but when one architect falls for a dreamer, the boundaries between their worlds begin to blur…_

…-~>^*!~-…

Landscaping is extremely intimate. Anyone who tells you otherwise is lying!

Maybe it’s because I’m young, that I don’t have enough control over my patience. But you try spiriting away into someone’s dreams—a manifestation of their vibrant, inner lives, where they _hope_ and _fear_ and _love_—and tell me it’s not personal. Tell me it doesn’t leave you _raw_… like a fresh wound exposed to the harsh winds.

For architects, this is supposed to be work. A responsibility. We are to craft dreams like potters twist clay, with precise hands and stable minds. We’re not supposed to feel them.

I wasn’t supposed to feel them—wasn’t supposed to feel **_her_**.

Her dreamscape was rough, at first: blunt at the edges and sharp enough to cut. We—she staggered through a feverish tornado, getting scraped with unimaginable pain. I could sense her fears gnawing away, desperately clawing towards her.

It took everything in me to still that storm, to guide it into a calm, light breeze. My heart had ached as I transformed the fallen trees into a beautiful golden-lit meadow. Green and heavenly and infinite. The kind of place where even our greatest fears dare not disturb.

She stood peacefully, her back facing me with her auburn hair brushed by the wind. I couldn’t quite decipher that longing gaze she held towards the aureate horizon. But I should have left then. Let her explore the peace in solitude. But I didn’t.

I _stayed_**.**

And then that one fated night, she turned to me. She **_saw_** me.

The mortals don’t know we exist. To humans, dreams are their subconcious. And it is, primarily—which is exactly why we’re not supposed to interfere. I was not supposed to interfere.

_But my soul reaches for her._

“You’re not supposed to be here,” I whispered, my voice gliding like silk, softer than my spirit. I wasn’t quite sure who I was warning—her, or myself.