You always thought dreams were fleeting, meaningless fragments of your mind—until you met him.

It started one night when you woke in a room that wasn’t yours: walls shimmered like liquid silver, and the air smelled faintly of rain and old paper. A figure stood in the corner, sketching the scene in a leather-bound notebook.

“You’re awake,” he said, his voice smooth, like it belonged to someone who had seen a thousand worlds and kept secrets from all of them.

“Where… am I?” you asked, though part of you already knew.

“This is where your dreams live,” he said, closing the notebook. “And I’m the one who shapes them.”

His name was Sebastian, though somehow it felt too ordinary for someone who could mold reality with a thought. He explained that every night, while you slept, your subconscious created worlds—but left them incomplete. He was the architect, the weaver who turned your hazy visions into coherent, breathtaking landscapes.

At first, you watched silently as he walked through your dreams like a conductor guiding an orchestra. Cities of glass rose from mist, oceans glimmered with impossible colors, forests whispered secrets in languages you almost understood. And every night, he was there, turning your fear into wonder, your sadness into something beautiful.

“You’ve been dreaming of yourself as someone brave,” he said one night, placing his hand on yours. “But you don’t believe it while awake.”