The Department of Lost Futures

Samuel stood at the intersection, hands deep in his jacket pockets. The early April wind stung his ears and sliced his neck, clinging to winter. The wind paused, then resumed sharper. The streetlamp above flickered like a struggling eye.

To his right was his apartment. Inside, a kettle sat on the table beside a half-finished set list and an unopened letter from his mother, who preferred letters' intimacy over texts. The last one was full of advice: "Eat better. Call your uncle. Think about your future." This one remained sealed.

To his left, shuttered storefronts lined the street. Dark windows mirrored his reflection. Further down, the decaying train station stood. Beyond it, an empty road wound toward the river, where streaks of pale sunlight stretched across the dimming sky.

He lingered unnecessarily, the silence hollow and hesitant.

His phone buzzed. A message from Eli: "Mic’s open tonight if you wanna try your new stuff."

Samuel let the screen go dark. His unfinished jokes remained, partly erased by doubt. The more he stared, the less he believed they’d succeed. It wasn’t fear but a voice whispering he might never balance honesty with recklessness.

He shifted his weight, eyes moving side to side.

Right meant home to tea and postponed dreams. Left promised something else, unclear in shape.

A short, bitter laugh escaped.

"Jesus Christ, Sam. It’s not a metaphor," he muttered.

The wind tugged at his jacket as he glanced left again. That's when the glitch began.

At first, it barely registered. The wind stopped. Streetlights blinked out of sync. Birds froze mid-flight, wings locked.

Then the world unraveled.

Layers peeled back like misaligned film. Samuel saw versions of himself, each standing differently at the intersection.

The sidewalk rippled like liquid glass.

He called out. His voice echoed, trapped between invisible walls.

The world contracted.

He stumbled, unable to tell left from right as the scene twisted. The sky pixelated. The ground became a glowing white surface.

Stillness followed. Samuel stood in a pale green lobby. The walls pulsed under fluorescent light. Muzak whispered, wrong and mechanical. His sneakers squelched on damp carpet. A faint antiseptic odor lingered. At the far end, a metal desk gleamed. Behind it, someone tapped steadily on a tablet.

Their badge read Corrin. They lifted their head with exhausted precision. Their eyes didn’t blink.

"Ah. Mr. Samuel."

Samuel blinked. His mouth opened but found no words. Corrin smiled with clinical reassurance.

"No need to panic. You’re experiencing a minor anomaly. Happens more often than people assume. Your unresolved divergence triggered a review."

"I don't understand."

"You encountered a glitch. A misalignment. Four unresolved branches in your file. The system flagged it before reintegration. Left unchecked, such glitches threaten your primary thread. Your arrival’s fortunate."

"I’ve no idea what any of that means."

"Perfectly normal. Please, sit."

Corrin gestured toward a padded chair reminiscent of a high school counselor’s office. Samuel didn’t move.

"Where am I?"

Corrin tilted their head with detached curiosity.

"You’re inside the Department of Lost Futures."

"Lost what?"

"Futures. Divergences. Alternate outcomes born from past choices and indecisions."

"This has to be a dream."

"We don’t handle dreams. That falls under the Department of Subconscious Inventory. We manage the unresolved lives you almost lived."

Samuel shook his head, his voice thinning.

"This is insane."

"Disorienting, yes. We must process four divergences before your variance lock clears. Shall we begin?"

Before Samuel could respond, the walls flickered with unstable light.

A door materialized.

Above it, glowing letters read CASE FILE ONE. THE ONE WHO RAN.

Corrin gestured toward it with unsettling calm.

Samuel’s throat dried. His palms dampened.

"What if I don’t go?"

Corrin’s face stayed impassive.

"Noncompliance accelerates thread decay. Processing prevents collapse. I recommend you proceed."

The door swung open.

Warm air drifted in, heavy with pine and woodsmoke. Distant guitar music hummed beneath the breeze.

Corrin stepped aside.

Samuel looked at the door, then Corrin, then at his unsteady hands.

He stepped forward.

The air shifted, revealing deep greens and rough earth. The vast sky was unlike anything he'd seen in New Hampshire.

He stood at the clearing's edge, where tall grass swayed under a bruised sunset. Silent, watchful pine trees loomed, and distant mountains rose like dark sentinels.

Behind him, a generator hummed. A wooden cabin, made of mismatched timber and topped with scattered solar panels, sat nearby. Smoke curled from its crooked chimney.

The sky turned amber, and the air smelled of resin and damp bark.

Movement at the cabin door caught his eye.

He saw himself.

The man who stepped out wore a flannel shirt and cargo pants. His beard was thick, skin weathered by years outdoors. His hair tied loosely. He looked lean, like someone who split wood and hunted meals.

The two men stared at each other. The bearded version spoke first.

"Well, damn. I didn’t think you’d show."

Samuel swallowed. A knot twisted beneath his ribs, not from fear but recognition. He was facing a version of himself who’d surrendered to an instinct Samuel barely acknowledged.

"What is this?" Samuel asked.

The man chuckled.

"The audit. You already know that." He spread his arms. "Welcome to the quiet."

Samuel stayed cautious. The scent of pine and smoke thickened the air.

"You’re me."

"Close enough. I’m the one who walked away."

"Walked away from what?"

The man gestured to the wilderness.

"Everything. The job. The apartment. The gigs. The treadmill. I left."

"You ran."

"I stopped running. You’re the one still running."

The trees rustled as Samuel stepped closer. His throat tightened. The clearing stretched wide and endless.

"Where’s everyone? Your family? Eli? Mom?"

The man’s eyes softened, but something hollow remained.

"Gone. I vanished. Stopped answering calls. Sold everything. Came here seven years ago. The calendars stopped mattering."

"You just left."

"I had to."

Samuel shook his head, voice low.

"You abandoned everything they worked for."

"They worked for survival. I’m surviving. They wanted freedom. This is freedom."

"This is isolation."

"It’s silence," the man said. "Silence’s honest. No one demands anything. No pressure to write jokes that amuse but don’t offend. No guilt. No ambition to balance."

Samuel’s chest grew heavy. The words pressed inside him.

"You gave up."

"I let go." His smile softened. "And you’re still holding on. Still trying not to disappoint. Still erasing punchlines for ghosts."

"That’s not true."

"Is it not? When did you last write something raw?"

Samuel opened his mouth but hesitated. Shame crept up his spine.

The man nodded.

"That’s what I left behind. The filter."

A hawk called overhead. Shadows stretched across the clearing. The trees whispered softly.

"But you’re alone," Samuel said.

"I chose solitude. Not loneliness."

The grass swayed gently.

"But what about"

The man raised his hand.

"That’s your problem. The what abouts. The maybes. They keep you trapped."

A soft chime rang through the clearing.

The man turned and smiled.

"That’s your cue."

Behind Samuel, another door appeared.

Samuel stared at the man. The taste of resin and woodsmoke lingered.

"Would you do it again?"

The man nodded.

"Without hesitation."

Samuel stepped toward the door. His feet felt heavy, as if the ground wanted him to stay.

As he crossed the threshold, a faint whisper followed him.

"Freedom was easy. Meaning was not."

The door closed behind him. The world shifted again.

Samuel stood in a dimly lit bar. It wasn’t one of those trendy places with polished concrete and craft cocktails. The leather booths sagged from years of use. Smoke had stained the ceiling yellow. Faded Christmas lights drooped along the bar. Some flickered. Others stayed dark.

The air was thick with spilled beer, cheap perfume, and alcohol soaked into the walls.

At first, the bar seemed empty.

Then he heard it.

Laughter.

Soft, familiar, magnetic.

His stomach twisted before his mind caught up. He hadn’t heard that laugh in years, but its weight pressed like an old bruise.

He followed the sound. His boots stuck slightly to the beer-slick floor.

There she was.

Amara.

She sat in the corner booth, swirling her drink, one leg crossed. The light caught the gold streak in her hair. She looked exactly as he remembered and exactly as he’d tried not to.

Beside her sat another version of himself.

This Samuel looked thinner. His eyes flicked toward Amara like a dog afraid of being scolded. He gripped his glass tightly, shoulders hunched, bracing for an argument that might not come but always hovered.

Amara laughed at something he said. It was the careful laugh she used to smooth things over.

Neither noticed Samuel standing there.

Corrin appeared beside him without sound. Samuel heard no footsteps.

"This divergence initiated after your third argument with Amara," Corrin said softly. "Here, you chose not to leave."

Samuel clenched his fists. Heat crawled up his neck.

"I didn’t leave lightly."

"Few do," Corrin replied.

Amara reached out, running her finger along Hollow-Samuel's jaw, tilting his head.

"You’re such a good listener," she said.

The other Samuel gave a weak smile.

"I just want you to be happy."

Her eyes narrowed.

"You make me happy when you’re not difficult."

Samuel felt the old weight settle, heavier than anger. He remembered that line. It was when everything broke. After months of compromise, he’d stood up and walked away.

But not this version. This one stayed.

"This isn’t love," Samuel said.

Corrin nodded.

"No. But it felt safer than being alone."

Amara leaned closer. Hollow-Samuel tried to match her, forcing a strained smile like a man desperate to keep the moment from slipping.

"Does it last?" Samuel asked.

"For years," Corrin said.

Samuel swallowed.

"And I’m miserable."

Corrin said nothing. The truth hung between them.

The bar flickered like broken film.

The scene jumped forward.

Hollow-Samuel sat alone. His glass was empty. The lights buzzed. The room drained into stale air.

"Where’d she go?"

"She left. People like her often do."

The other version pulled a notebook from his jacket. Samuel recognized it. It was the one he used to carry for bits and ideas. Now, every page was scribbled over. Words crossed out. No punchlines left. Only apologies.

"I’d have lost my voice," Samuel whispered.

"You surrendered it," Corrin said.

The hollow version sat there, repeating softly.

"It’s fine. She’s happy. It’s fine."

The words fell like an old habit that refused to break.

A bell rang.

A new door appeared.

Samuel pulled his gaze from his deteriorating reflection. His chest ached.

Before stepping through, he whispered, "You were never enough for her."

He walked through.

The world shifted again.

Mechanical hums filled the air. Towering skyscrapers assembled piece by piece beneath a neon sky pulsing with color. Massive digital panels blinked to life, flashing ads, faces, symbols. Holographic billboards screamed his name in giant letters.

SAMUEL HADDAD

THE COMEDY EMPIRE

Live. Unfiltered. Untouchable.

He hadn’t heard his full name spoken like that in years. The sound felt both foreign and electric.

Below, drones floated like oversized insects. Cars zipped along glassy boulevards. Pedestrians moved in perfect sync beneath the towers. Spotlights crossed the sky while a massive stadium pulsed with giant screens playing clips of his act. His face filled the city, smiling, smirking, selling.

The air buzzed with electric tension. The city pulsed with his heartbeat.

A voice called from behind him.

"Beautiful, isn’t it?"

Samuel turned.

Another version of himself stood there.

This Samuel wore a designer suit that fit like armor. His watch gleamed. His posture was flawless. His smile sharp as glass. His eyes held a certainty Samuel had never allowed.

"I’ve been waiting for you," Empire-Samuel said. "Welcome to the version you were too afraid to become."

Samuel swallowed. The air tasted metallic.

"What is this?"

Empire-Samuel motioned to the city, the signs, the crowds, the stadium.

"This’s what happens when you stop apologizing. When you stop second-guessing. When you write for power instead of approval."

The giant screens played clips from his routines. The jokes were vicious, sharp, dangerous. No careful lines. No tightrope. Every punchline landed with brutal precision.

"You sold out," Samuel said.

Empire-Samuel laughed.

"I bought in. I built a kingdom."

"You turned it into a weapon."

"Of course. The world loves cruelty more than hesitation. You knew that. You lacked the stomach for it."

Samuel shook his head. The pulse of the city beat against his temples.

"I couldn’t turn on my people."

Empire-Samuel’s smile thinned.

"Your people. The ones who taught you to fear failure. To choose survival over ambition. They loved you small. I shattered the cage and made myself larger."

He stepped closer.

"They handed you shame as inheritance. I sold it for influence."

In the distance, stadium doors hissed open. Screaming fans poured inside. Cameras flashed like lightning.

"This isn’t comedy anymore," Samuel said. "This’s an empire built on cruelty."

Empire-Samuel kept smiling.

"And they love me for it."

He pointed toward endless billboards where pundits debated his latest scandal. Ratings surged with every controversy.

"Do you believe anything you say anymore?"

Empire-Samuel's eyes narrowed.

"Belief’s for amateurs. I sell certainty."

Samuel clenched his jaw.

"And when it collapses? When your name turns toxic? When the crowd turns?"

Empire-Samuel’s smile wavered but held.

"Then I’ll rebuild. I’ll survive. I don’t need their love. Only attention."

Behind Samuel, the door appeared again, its glow pulsing.

Empire-Samuel spoke again.

"You’re afraid of being hated. I’m not."

Samuel paused at the doorway. His hands tightened.

"I’d rather fail than become you."

Empire-Samuel's voice stayed calm.

"You already have. You just don’t want to face it."

Samuel stepped through the doorway. The door closed behind him. The light faded. The world shifted again.

The space was silent. A sterile hum filled the wide, empty room. White panels stretched beneath his feet. The walls climbed upward, blending into a ceiling that felt endless and suffocating.

Only his breathing broke the silence.

Then he saw him.

Seated in a gray chair was another Samuel. This one was neither wild, hollow, nor powerful. He sat still and composed.

He wore a sharp suit. His shirt was pressed. His pale blue tie sat straight. His shoes gleamed beneath polished cuffs. His face was smooth, free of tension. His eyes calm.

He watched Samuel like a physician studying a patient.

"I thought you might not make it here," the quiet version said.

Samuel swallowed.

"Which one are you?"

"I’m the one who listened."

"To who?"

"Everyone."

The words settled with invisible weight.

Samuel crossed the space. His footsteps echoed louder than they should.

"You mean Mom."

"Yes. And the family. The mentors. The ones who told us how to live safely, respectfully, predictably."

His smile held, but something flickered.

"I followed their advice."

Samuel’s chest tightened. The restraint in this version unsettled him more than cruelty or isolation.

"You gave up comedy."

"I set it aside. It was impractical."

Samuel let out a breath.

"And you’re happy?"

"I am stable."

"That’s not what I asked."

The quiet Samuel’s voice softened.

"Happiness’s indulgent. Stability’s responsible."

Samuel stared. The words rang too familiar. He heard echoes of every warning he’d absorbed. His mother’s voice layered beneath the quiet version’s.

"You’re scared," Samuel said. "You let fear pretend to be virtue. You say you’re protecting your family, but you’re hiding. From failure. From shame."

The quiet Samuel’s eyes darkened, then steadied.

"I’ve no regrets," he said. "My children’ll have opportunities we never dreamed of. My wife sleeps soundly. My mother’s proud."

He paused.

"Can you say the same?"

Samuel thought of long nights alone. Empty rooms. Notebooks filled with crossed-out jokes. Quiet victories few noticed. The weight of disappointing his mother. The ache of not knowing if he’d make it.

But he could breathe.

"I wake up every day still trying," Samuel said. "Even if I fail, I’m not haunted by whether I was brave enough to try."

The quiet Samuel stared. His expression stayed still, but his eyes cracked.

"Do you laugh anymore?" Samuel asked.

The quiet version spoke softly.

"I don’t need to."

A soft chime echoed. A door appeared behind Samuel.

Corrin’s voice filled the space.

"Final variance reviewed. Correction’s now possible."

Samuel glanced at the man in the chair. He looked like a ghost trapped inside a life too safe to escape.

"You’re the saddest one of us all," Samuel said as he stepped toward the door.

The light closed behind him.

For a moment, Samuel floated weightless. The world stretched like elastic, then snapped back into place.

The cold air returned, biting at his skin. The hum of traffic whispered around him. Overhead, a streetlamp flickered against the evening sky.

Samuel stood once more at the intersection.

The same cracked pavement lay beneath him. The same empty storefronts waited to his left. The same path home called from the right.

The weight of everything he’d seen pressed into him. He felt the residue of all the versions layered inside, each one a living answer to questions he’d barely dared to ask.

His head spun. The voices of his other selves still lingered.

The one who ran.

The one who stayed.

The one who ruled.

The one who obeyed.

You could be free.

You could be safe.

You could be worshipped.

You could be secure.

The wind slipped through the street, carrying the faint scent of rain and pine. For a moment, it smelled like all the futures he might’ve chosen.

Samuel closed his eyes and drew a breath. His pulse steadied as the weight of regret, fear, ambition, and desire settled together. It didn’t crush him. It clarified him.

Was it real? The Department, Corrin, the doors and the lives stacked behind the thin skin of reality?

Or was it only regret, dressed as possibility?

His phone buzzed.

A text from Eli lit the screen.

"Mic’s open. You coming or nah?"

The words waited.

He looked up.

The intersection stood silent. No judgment. No guidance. Only choice.

Right led home.

Left led somewhere.