Script: The Conservatory

A relentless STORM. Rain hammers down.

A rusted IRON TRELLIS runs up the side of a vast, derelict Victorian conservatory. The brick is dark and slick with rain and algae.

EDMOND (19), soaked to the bone, scrambles up the trellis. His face is raw with desperation. His sneaker slips on the wet metal.

He yelps as his shin SLAMS into a rusted bolt. Pain flashes across his face. He doesn't scream, just hisses through his teeth, a sound swallowed by the storm.

He clings to the wall, chest heaving. He scrabbles for the high window ledge. The wood is rotten, CRUMBLING like wet cake in his grip.

He swears, digs his fingers into the gap between the frame and the brick. With a guttural GRUNT, he heaves himself up and over the sill.

Edmond tumbles inside, landing hard on his shoulder. The sharp CRUNCH of shattering glass beneath him.

He rolls onto his back, gasping for air.

The space is cavernous, still, and humid. The air is thick with the smell of rotting mulch, stagnant water, and something sickly sweet, like flowers on a grave.

He stares up. The roof is a skeletal grid of iron ribs. Most of the glass panes are gone. Rain falls through the gaps, pattering on the leaves of massive, prehistoric-looking plants that choke the interior. It feels like being inside the ribcage of a whale.

A flat, unimpressed voice cuts through the dark.

Edmond flinches, scrambling backward on the dirt floor. His heart hammers. He fumbles in his hoodie pocket for a FLASHLIGHT, his hands shaking so badly he almost drops it.

He clicks it on.

The beam cuts through the gloom, illuminating dust motes and falling rain. It sweeps over tangled vines, massive ferns, and cracked terracotta pots.

The beam lands on MAREN (20s).

She sits on a rusted wrought-iron bench, legs tucked up under her chin. Her dark hair is a tangled knot, stuck with twigs and spiderwebs. She wears a stained, oversized coat.

In one hand, she holds a pair of large, rusty GARDENING SHEARS. They look more like a weapon than a tool.

She blinks in the light but doesn't look away. Her eyes are dark, ringed with exhaustion.

Edmond looks down. He's crushing a purple, trailing vine into the mud. He quickly shifts his weight.

Edmond stares, his mind misfiring.

Sound carries. Especially when the glass is broken. Why are you here?

She considers this, tilting her head.

She waves the shears toward a shadowy corner. Edmond swallows hard.

He doesn't move, just sits in the dirt, the flashlight beam wavering. The adrenaline fades, leaving him cold and shaking.

Maren turns back to a dead rosebush and begins pruning it. The rhythmic SNIP. SNIP. SNIP. of the shears is the only sound besides the rain.

Edmond touches his lip. His fingers come away red.

Edmond hesitates, then pushes himself up. He walks cautiously to a massive aloe vera plant spilling from a cracked urn. He breaks off a small tip. Cool gel oozes out. He dabs it on his lip. It stings, then numbs.

She finally looks at him again. A small, crooked smile touches her lips.

She lets out a sharp, barking laugh.

Edmond's flashlight beam drifts over to a corner. A waterproof tarp is strung up. A pile of books wrapped in plastic. A small camping stove. It's a tidy, organic nest amidst the chaos. He walks closer to her bench.

Edmond looks at the walls. Ivy forces its way through the mortar, crumbling brick dust to the floor.

She stands and walks to a table covered in small clay pots.

Edmond follows. She points to a tiny, pathetic-looking plant. It has two pale yellow leaves, drooping sadly.

She touches one of the leaves with a dirty, impossibly gentle finger.

Edmond stares at the ugly, weak sprout. It reminds him of himself an hour ago, suffocating in his father's kitchen.

Maren looks at him, her eyes reflecting the flashlight beam.

She reaches into her coat pocket and pulls out a slightly crushed pack of saltine crackers. She holds it out to him.

Edmond stares at the crackers. A short, choked laugh escapes him. The absurdity of it all.

He takes a cracker. It's soft and chewy. It tastes like cardboard and salt. It's the best thing he's eaten all day.

They stand in the dark, eating crackers, listening to the rain hammer against the glass ribs of the roof.

The words just fall out. Maren crunches on her cracker, unfazed.

A stinging sensation builds behind Edmond's eyes. He blinks it away.

A heavy drop of cold water splashes onto Edmond's nose from a leak above. He wipes it away, smearing dirt on his face.

Maren looks around her kingdom of rot and green, then nods.

Edmond freezes.

Maren gives a wide, slightly manic grin.

She turns back to her work table, humming a dark, slow nursery rhyme.

Edmond walks to a mildewed hammock chair in the corner. He shakes it. A large, hairy spider scuttles away. He sits. The fabric holds him.

He watches Maren in the dim light. She's repotting the yellow sprout now, her hands moving with surgical precision, murmuring to it.

He leans his head back. The roar of the rain isolates them from the world. His father, the failed exams—they all feel very far away. He feels a strange spark in his chest. He isn't happy, but he isn't drowning anymore.

A pause. The soft clinking of pottery.

Edmond closes his eyes. The smell of wet earth fills his lungs.

Outside, the rain continues to fall, washing the grime from the glass, bit by bit.