Chapter 1 - Sam
Chapter 1 — Sam
The cursor blinked like it had somewhere better to be.
Sam stared at it, arms folded, jaw tight, as if stubbornness alone might force a sentence into existence. It blinked again — patient, unbothered, quietly judgmental.
“You could at least pretend to help,” he told the screen.
It did not.
His apartment carried the comfortable clutter of a once-productive writer: full bookshelves, stacked notebooks, a framed review clipping from three years ago that he had stopped reading but never put away. The mug on his desk still held yesterday’s coffee. He hadn’t noticed until now.
He noticed very little lately.
He leaned forward and typed a word.
The
He frowned at it.
Deleted it.
“Too aggressive,” he muttered.
He tried again.
Once
He deleted that even faster. Too fairy tale. Too hopeful. Too much expectation packed into four letters.
His phone buzzed against the desk, rattling like an impatient insect. He grabbed it with relief.
Ethan: You still in the creative trenches?Ethan: I’ve built three financial models and a dragon. Guess which one I like more.
A smile tugged at Sam’s mouth as he texts back.
Sam: Does the dragon have a retirement portfolio?Ethan: Diversified treasure hoard.
Sam rubbed his eyes. Ethan’s messages had become a strange kind of lifeline — proof that creativity still existed in the wild, even if it had abandoned him personally.
He looked back at the document.
Blank again. Mocking again.
Three years ago, words arrived like guests who didn’t knock. Now they needed invitations, directions, and probably parking validation.
Back then, readers called him observant.
Later, they called him derivative.
“You’re brilliant at noticing,” one review had said.
“But what of it is yours?”
He closed the laptop with more gentleness than it deserved.
The silence that followed felt too loud.
He stood, grabbed his jacket, and decided what he always decided when the page refused him:
Coffee. Noise. Other humans.
If words wouldn’t come to him, maybe he could overhear a few in the wild.
As he stepped into the hallway, he nearly collided with Mr. DeMarco from across the landing, who was balancing a shoebox-sized structure in both hands.
“Whoa — sorry,” Sam said.
Mr. DeMarco steadied it with surprising grace. “No harm done. You’re walking like a man being chased.”
“Deadlines,” Sam said automatically.
Mr. DeMarco peered at him. “You’re a writer, right?”
“Trying to be,” Sam answered.
The older man nodded toward the small structure. “I used to build houses. Now I build the ones people can’t complain about.”
Sam leaned closer. It was a miniature storefront — brickwork, windows, even a tiny hanging sign carved by hand.
“This is incredible,” Sam said, and meant it.
Mr. DeMarco shrugged, but couldn’t quite hide his pride. “Just something I do to keep my hands honest.”
“That’s still building,” Sam said.
Mr. DeMarco studied him for a moment, like he was deciding whether to believe that. Then he smiled and shuffled toward his door.
Sam continued down the stairs, the comment echoing back at him.
Keep my hands honest.
He liked that.
Outside, the air was cool and bright, the kind of morning that suggested good decisions were still possible. The café sign down the block swung slightly in the breeze:
Brewed Awakening
He took that as direction from the universe and headed toward it.
If nothing else, he could borrow a little warmth until his own came back.
