A warm, mundane space. Worn wooden tables, the gentle hiss of an espresso machine. The air smells of coffee and faintly of burnt milk.
JOHN (70s), a man with the meticulous calm of a watchmaker, stares at a cheap plastic WALL CLOCK.
CLOSE ON - THE WALL CLOCK
The second hand stutters. Freezes for a beat. Jumps forward two seconds to catch up. A mechanical impossibility for a quartz movement.
Across the room, LINDA (ageless, 60s), the proprietor, polishes a glass behind the counter. She catches his eye. She gives a small, almost imperceptible nod. Not a greeting. An acknowledgement.
Through the large plate-glass window, a sleek, modern TRAM glides past on the street.
Then, a FLICKER.
For a single, seamless beat, the world outside the window shifts.
The modern tram is replaced by a lumbering, bottle-green and cream DOUBLE-DECKER TRAM from the 1950s. SPARKS fly from its pantograph hitting the overhead wires.
On the pavement, a young woman in neon leggings staring at her phone is gone. In her place stands a MAN IN A TRILBY and a heavy wool overcoat, reading a broadsheet newspaper.
SOUND of a distant coal smoke whistle, faint and ghostly.
And just as quickly, it’s gone. The modern tram continues on its way. The young woman is back.
John blinks, shaking his head slightly. A trick of the light. It had to be. But he can almost still smell the coal smoke.
TERRY (70s), a man built for tweed and cynicism, slumps into the chair opposite John, dropping a damp copy of The Guardian on the table.
Terry flags down Linda.
Terry lets out a theatrical, world-weary sigh.
He unfolds his paper, then pauses. A frown.
Linda arrives with a coffee and a slice of cake, placing them on the table with a steady hand. Her eyes are on John.
John snatches the paper. Terry is right.
CLOSE ON - THE NEWSPAPER
The masthead is clear: WEDNESDAY, 24TH OCTOBER. Headlines read: ‘Council Approves Controversial High-Rise Development’ and ‘City Suffers Record Power Outage.’
Linda wipes down an adjacent table, her movements slow, deliberate. She doesn’t look at them as she speaks.
John stares at her. She knows. Of course she knows.
She offers a simple shrug, finally turning to him.
SOUND: A small BELL over the door chimes.
Linda looks towards the door.
A YOUNG MAN (20s) stands in the doorway. He wears a faded, ill-fitting DEMOB SUIT from the post-war era. The shoulders are too wide, the trousers too short.
His eyes are wide with utter bewilderment. He scans the room—the chrome coffee machine, the students on laptops, the soft indie music—like a man who has wandered into a different century.
He approaches their table, his hands nervously twisting the brim of a non-existent hat. His face is pale. He looks at John, his eyes pleading for an anchor.
John stares, the newspaper from tomorrow clutched in his hand. His perfectly calibrated world has just shattered.
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