What the Loom Remembers
In a society that has outlawed the past, a young weaver secretly creates tapestries from forbidden scraps. When an elder discovers her secret, she expects punishment, but instead receives a piece of history that could unravel their entire world.
INT. ROOT CELLAR - DAY
SOUND of a steady, rhythmic CLACK-THUMP... CLACK-THUMP...
Dust motes dance in the slivers of light piercing the floorboards above. The cellar is cramped, smelling of damp earth and potatoes.
Dominating the space is a crude LOOM, built from scavenged timber and old plumbing pipes.
TANYA (20s), focused and quietly defiant, works the loom. Her movements are economical, practiced.
CLOSE ON THE TAPESTRY
An impossible image takes shape on the warp threads. A cityscape. Not the low, earthen structures of her world, but a vertical forest of glass and steel. It’s a mosaic of salvaged scraps: grey linen, black cotton, shimmering, unidentifiable synthetics.
Tanya holds a new scrap in her hand: a piece of heavy BLUE SERGE.
CLOSE ON THE SCRAP
A single, tarnished BRASS BUTTON is still attached. An old uniform. Holding it feels like a crime.
She carefully threads a strip of the blue serge into her shuttle. This will be the sky above her tallest tower.
She works the beater. CLACK. She passes the shuttle. THUMP.
SFX: Heavy, deliberate FOOTSTEPS creak and THUMP on the floorboards directly overhead.
Tanya freezes. Her shuttle clatters to the floor. Her heart hammers against her ribs. No one ever comes down here.
Panic flashes in her eyes. She moves with frantic speed.
Her fingers fly, unpinning the tapestry from the loom's frame. She rolls the delicate work into a tight bundle, shoves it deep inside a hollowed-out POTATO CRATE.
She grabs a dusty burlap sack and throws it over the loom, hiding its shape just as...
SOUND of the cellar door SCRAPING open.
A wedge of weak daylight spills down the earthen steps, blinding her for a second. A bent silhouette stands at the top.
The figure descends. LILY (70s), one of the Elders. Her face is a roadmap of wrinkles, her back stooped, but her eyes are as sharp as shards of flint.
Tanya shrinks back, trying to appear casual. She wipes sweaty palms on her trousers.
LILY
> Tanya. I thought I might find you here. The water reclamation pump for Sector Gamma is clogged again. Your father sent me to fetch you.
TANYA
> Of course, Elder. I was just... sorting the winter stock.
Lily’s gaze sweeps over the cellar. It moves past sacks of potatoes, jars of preserves... and lingers for a long beat on the shapeless form hidden beneath the burlap sack.
Tanya is certain she can see the outline of the loom. The ruse feels transparent, childish. She holds her breath.
Lily just gives a slow, deliberate nod. But she doesn't turn to leave. She stares at the stone walls.
LILY
> This settlement was built on forgetting. We decided that to survive, we had to cut away the past. Burn the books. Melt the machines. Plough the ruins. We thought it was a kindness. You can't miss what you don't remember.
She takes a slow, creaking step towards the covered loom. Tanya doesn't move. She can't.
LILY
>>(whispering)
> We were wrong. Forgetting isn't healing. It's just leaving the wound to fester in the dark.
With a gnarled hand, Lily reaches out and pulls the burlap sack away.
The loom is exposed. Tanya's half-finished work, the threads of her rebellion, sit naked in the dim light.
Tanya waits for the condemnation. The alarm. The end.
Instead, Lily reaches into a deep pocket of her homespun robe. She pulls out a small, folded square of fabric.
CLOSE ON THE FABRIC
It’s white silk, yellowed with age, but exquisitely embroidered with tiny, colourful flowers. A relic of impossible beauty.
LILY
>>(voice cracking)
> This was part of my mother's wedding dress. She wore it on a day when the sky was this same colour.
She gently, reverently, touches the patch of blue serge Tanya just wove into her cityscape.
Lily holds the embroidered silk out to Tanya. An offering.
LILY
> A city needs flowers. Even a forgotten one.
Tanya stares, first at the impossible gift, then into the Elder's eyes. She sees no trap. Only a profound, shared sadness. And a flicker of defiant hope.
She takes the fabric. It is softer than anything she has ever touched.
LILY
>>(a bare whisper)
> There are others. Others who remember. Others who kept things. We were too afraid to speak. But you... you weren't. You gave our memories a place to live.
Tanya looks from the precious silk in her hand to her loom. It is no longer just a secret hiding in the dark. It's a beacon.
The rhythmic clack-thump is about to become the heartbeat of a revolution.
SOUND of a steady, rhythmic CLACK-THUMP... CLACK-THUMP...
Dust motes dance in the slivers of light piercing the floorboards above. The cellar is cramped, smelling of damp earth and potatoes.
Dominating the space is a crude LOOM, built from scavenged timber and old plumbing pipes.
TANYA (20s), focused and quietly defiant, works the loom. Her movements are economical, practiced.
CLOSE ON THE TAPESTRY
An impossible image takes shape on the warp threads. A cityscape. Not the low, earthen structures of her world, but a vertical forest of glass and steel. It’s a mosaic of salvaged scraps: grey linen, black cotton, shimmering, unidentifiable synthetics.
Tanya holds a new scrap in her hand: a piece of heavy BLUE SERGE.
CLOSE ON THE SCRAP
A single, tarnished BRASS BUTTON is still attached. An old uniform. Holding it feels like a crime.
She carefully threads a strip of the blue serge into her shuttle. This will be the sky above her tallest tower.
She works the beater. CLACK. She passes the shuttle. THUMP.
SFX: Heavy, deliberate FOOTSTEPS creak and THUMP on the floorboards directly overhead.
Tanya freezes. Her shuttle clatters to the floor. Her heart hammers against her ribs. No one ever comes down here.
Panic flashes in her eyes. She moves with frantic speed.
Her fingers fly, unpinning the tapestry from the loom's frame. She rolls the delicate work into a tight bundle, shoves it deep inside a hollowed-out POTATO CRATE.
She grabs a dusty burlap sack and throws it over the loom, hiding its shape just as...
SOUND of the cellar door SCRAPING open.
A wedge of weak daylight spills down the earthen steps, blinding her for a second. A bent silhouette stands at the top.
The figure descends. LILY (70s), one of the Elders. Her face is a roadmap of wrinkles, her back stooped, but her eyes are as sharp as shards of flint.
Tanya shrinks back, trying to appear casual. She wipes sweaty palms on her trousers.
LILY
> Tanya. I thought I might find you here. The water reclamation pump for Sector Gamma is clogged again. Your father sent me to fetch you.
TANYA
> Of course, Elder. I was just... sorting the winter stock.
Lily’s gaze sweeps over the cellar. It moves past sacks of potatoes, jars of preserves... and lingers for a long beat on the shapeless form hidden beneath the burlap sack.
Tanya is certain she can see the outline of the loom. The ruse feels transparent, childish. She holds her breath.
Lily just gives a slow, deliberate nod. But she doesn't turn to leave. She stares at the stone walls.
LILY
> This settlement was built on forgetting. We decided that to survive, we had to cut away the past. Burn the books. Melt the machines. Plough the ruins. We thought it was a kindness. You can't miss what you don't remember.
She takes a slow, creaking step towards the covered loom. Tanya doesn't move. She can't.
LILY
>>(whispering)
> We were wrong. Forgetting isn't healing. It's just leaving the wound to fester in the dark.
With a gnarled hand, Lily reaches out and pulls the burlap sack away.
The loom is exposed. Tanya's half-finished work, the threads of her rebellion, sit naked in the dim light.
Tanya waits for the condemnation. The alarm. The end.
Instead, Lily reaches into a deep pocket of her homespun robe. She pulls out a small, folded square of fabric.
CLOSE ON THE FABRIC
It’s white silk, yellowed with age, but exquisitely embroidered with tiny, colourful flowers. A relic of impossible beauty.
LILY
>>(voice cracking)
> This was part of my mother's wedding dress. She wore it on a day when the sky was this same colour.
She gently, reverently, touches the patch of blue serge Tanya just wove into her cityscape.
Lily holds the embroidered silk out to Tanya. An offering.
LILY
> A city needs flowers. Even a forgotten one.
Tanya stares, first at the impossible gift, then into the Elder's eyes. She sees no trap. Only a profound, shared sadness. And a flicker of defiant hope.
She takes the fabric. It is softer than anything she has ever touched.
LILY
>>(a bare whisper)
> There are others. Others who remember. Others who kept things. We were too afraid to speak. But you... you weren't. You gave our memories a place to live.
Tanya looks from the precious silk in her hand to her loom. It is no longer just a secret hiding in the dark. It's a beacon.
The rhythmic clack-thump is about to become the heartbeat of a revolution.