✴ SCENE: “He Dreams of Ships”
INT. MARCO’S ROOM – MIDNIGHT
He’s asleep. Sort of. Twitching slightly. The blankets twisted like rope. Moonlight crawls across the floor. The sea murmurs in his ears, though he’s nowhere near it.
DREAM – DARK SHORELINE, NO STARS
He stands on a black coast. All around him: wreckage. Ships broken and bleeding, sails in tatters, oars half-buried in sand like bones.
A man walks toward him — tall, tired, clever eyes. Beard like a storm. Bronze glinting on one arm. It’s Odysseus.
Not proud. Not heroic. Just exhausted.
Odysseus:
“You bear my shadow.”
Marco stares. The man’s voice is like old wind.
Marco:
“I don’t even know you.”
Odysseus (quietly):
“You carry what I couldn’t. The weight of choices. The grief of those who followed.”
Suddenly—
“FATHER!”
Another voice. Younger. Sharper. A boy — barely older than Marco. Telemachos. Arms crossed. Angry, afraid.
Telemachos:
“He left us. Went to war, came back different. I don’t want his legacy.”
Marco looks between them. His heart beats faster.
Marco:
“Why me?”
Telemachos:
“You’re us. The anger. The questioning. The part that survived.”
Odysseus:
“But survival has a cost.”
The sea behind them begins to rise. Hundreds of shadowy men with no names walk out of the surf. Some broken. Some quiet. All of them stare at Marco.
Nameless voice:
“We followed him.”
Another:
“We died far from home.”
Marco backs up. He’s shaking.
Marco (shouting):
“I didn’t ask for this!”
Odysseus:
“Neither did I.”
The waves crash around him.
✴ INT. MARCO’S ROOM – MORNING
He jolts awake. Sweat-drenched. The sound of gulls outside makes him flinch.
At the foot of his bed sits a damp feather.
Not a seagull’s.
A siren’s.
Godmode: Enabled 