The Moss-Covered Notebook
A spring walk through the land lab takes an unexpected turn when Geoff and Sandy uncover a mysterious, moss-covered notebook. Amidst the thawing earth and budding plants, their conversation drifts from forgotten discoveries to ambitious dreams of creating local food products and tackling community challenges, all while their own connection subtly deepens.
EXT. NORTHWESTERN ONTARIO WOODS - DAY
SOUND of mud SQUELCHING, sucking with each step
The ground is a mess of thawing earth and slick, brown leaves. Skeletal trees reach for a pale spring sky. The air is sharp, smelling of wet dirt and new growth.
GEOFF (17), pragmatic and observant, plods through the muck. His boots are caked.
A few paces ahead, SANDY (17), energetic and sure-footed, pivots on a rock, her worn boots steady. Wisps of dark hair have escaped her braid, clinging to flushed cheeks. She calls over her shoulder, a laugh in her voice.
SANDY
> You’re going to get stuck, you know.
Geoff pulls a boot free with a wet *SHLUPP*. His breath puffs out in a white cloud.
GEOFF
> Never. I’m a professional mud-walker.
He watches her, the way the low sun catches the loose strands of her hair. The way she grins without quite looking at him.
SANDY
> Oh, a professional, are we? Then perhaps you can explain why your left boot looks suspiciously like it’s trying to become one with the trail?
Geoff looks down. The dark soil has swallowed his ankle. He tugs. It comes free with another satisfying squelch.
Sandy laughs, a bright, clear sound that cuts through the quiet woods.
GEOFF
> Alright, fine, I’m a semi-professional. But point taken. We’re going to be tracking half the forest into your dad’s truck.
She turns to face him, hands stuffed in the pockets of a well-loved canvas jacket.
SANDY
> That’s okay. He expects it. It’s part of the land lab charm, isn’t it? Proof of a good day’s… exploration.
She gestures at the bare branches overhead, where a faint green haze of buds is just beginning to show.
GEOFF
> Exploration of what, exactly? Mostly just mud and the promise of mosquitoes.
SANDY
>>(scoffs, smiling)
> Optimist. The promise of a new season, Geoff. New growth. This is when the magic starts.
GEOFF
> Magic that involves a lot of digging and fending off deer, if last summer was anything to go by.
He can't help but grin at the memory.
SANDY
> Speaking of which. Think the strawberries will be as prolific this year? I’m still dreaming of those jam batches.
GEOFF
> If we get another run like that, we’ll be set for life. Remember the cucumber glut? Your mum was trying to pawn off jars of pickles on everyone in a ten-kilometre radius.
SANDY
>>(laughing)
> They were good pickles! And don’t pretend you didn’t hoard a few. Your dad’s a fiend for a good dill spear.
They walk in comfortable silence. The trail narrows, weaving between skeletal birch and ancient spruce.
SOUND of a distant river, swollen with snowmelt
Suddenly, Sandy stops. She holds up a hand. Geoff nearly bumps into her.
GEOFF
> Whoa, what is it?
He peers over her shoulder. Her eyes are wide. She points.
ANGLE ON -- A FALLEN LOG
Tucked into a hollow, almost entirely swallowed by a rich carpet of emerald moss, is something dark and rectangular. It doesn't belong.
SANDY
>>(whispering)
> Look.
She steps closer, transfixed. Geoff follows, leaning down.
He brushes away a patch of damp moss.
CLOSE ON -- A NOTEBOOK
The dark, worn leather of a small journal reveals itself. It’s ancient. The moss has left faint green stains along its spine. A tightly coiled fiddlehead brushes against Geoff's knuckles.
GEOFF
>>(murmuring)
> Someone just… left it?
SANDY
>>(a breath)
> Or maybe it was lost. A long time ago.
She looks at him. An unspoken question passes between them. *Do we open it?*
GEOFF
> It’s not… ours.
SANDY
> No, but… who would leave something like this? It looks important.
Geoff carefully picks it up. It’s surprisingly heavy. The leather is cool and damp. No lock, no clasp. The corners are scuffed, the edges softened by time.
Sandy leans in close, her hair brushing his arm. He fumbles slightly, his heart thumping. He eases the cover open.
A faint, musty smell of old paper and dried leaves wafts out.
The pages are yellowed, brittle. They are filled with faint, looping script in faded ink.
SANDY
>>(whispering)
> Anything?
GEOFF
> Just… writing. Looks like a journal. Old. Very old.
He doesn't try to read it. He meets Sandy's eyes, a silent understanding. This requires more than a quick glance on a muddy trail.
He closes the cover gently and tucks the notebook inside his jacket. A comfortable weight against his chest.
They continue their walk. The sun climbs higher, warming the air.
SOUND of spring peepers swelling from a nearby swamp
SANDY
> So, the big plans for the new year.
GEOFF
> We need a strategy. Can’t just grow things and hope for the best again. Not if we want this thing to really take off.
SANDY
> Agreed. What if we make something? Like, a proper product. Not just raw vegetables.
GEOFF
> A product? Like… more jam?
SANDY
> Think bigger. Something unique. Something that really showcases what this region has to offer.
She stops, bending to inspect a patch of tiny, budding plants near the trail. She plucks a single green leaf, crushes it between her fingers, and holds it out to him.
SANDY
> Smell this. Wild mint.
Geoff leans in. The scent is potent, earthy, undeniably fresh.
GEOFF
> Wild mint… interesting. Maybe a savoury application? Mint jelly? That’s getting pretty gourmet, though. People might not take us seriously.
SANDY
>>(eyes bright)
> Exactly! That’s part of the challenge, isn’t it? How do we take something simple, something local, and elevate it? Make it something people *want* to pay for?
Her enthusiasm is infectious. Geoff finds himself grinning.
GEOFF
> Okay, okay. So, we’re thinking beyond straight-up produce. Something with a local flavour profile. And we’re leveraging the land lab’s bounty. Which, by the way, we still have to plant.
SANDY
>>(rolling her eyes)
> Details, details. The grand vision first, then the back-breaking labour. What about, like, a spruce tip syrup? Or a berry vinegar? Something tart and bright.
GEOFF
> Berry vinegar. That actually has legs. Like a shrub. Raspberry vinegar. Or chokecherry, if we can get enough. They’re finicky.
He likes it. The idea feels sophisticated, yet rooted here.
SANDY
> See? You’re getting it! And that ties into the bigger picture. Small communities like ours… we face a lot of challenges. Getting young people to stay.
Her expression turns serious, her gaze distant.
GEOFF
> Yeah.
The playful energy fades, replaced by a grounded, thoughtful tone.
SANDY
> So, if we could create something here. Something that uses local resources, creates even a few local jobs… that’s creative entrepreneurship, isn’t it? Not just making money, but building something for *here*.
Her voice holds a fierce passion.
GEOFF
> It is. But it’s a huge undertaking. We’d need proper equipment, a commercial kitchen, permits… all that boring stuff.
SANDY
> Boring, yes, but necessary. But we have the land lab. We have the community’s support. We’d have a network.
They approach a small clearing. Sunlight streams down, illuminating patches of startlingly vibrant new grass.
GEOFF
> So, what’s the first step? Dreaming is good, but execution is what counts.
Sandy stops, turning to face him fully. The sun catches her hair, turning it into a warm halo. Her expression is serious, yet alight with possibility.
SANDY
> The first step is to decide what our hero product is. Our signature. Something that screams ‘Northwestern Ontario’. Something that’s *ours*.
Geoff’s breath hitches, just a little. He feels the weight of the notebook against his chest.
GEOFF
>>(softly)
> Something that’s ours.
The words hang in the air between them, suddenly meaning more than just a food product.
SANDY
> Exactly.
Her eyes hold his. A silent understanding passes between them. A shared commitment.
EXT. WOODS, CLEARING - LATER
The sun is lower, bathing the clearing in golden light.
Geoff and Sandy sit on a fallen log, softened by moss. The air is still.
Geoff pulls the notebook from his jacket, its cover still slightly damp. He holds it out.
Sandy reaches, her fingers brushing his. A fleeting, electric contact. But she doesn't take it. She just looks at the worn cover, then at him.
SANDY
>>(softly)
> Later. Let’s just… let the ideas sit for a bit. Before we get lost in someone else’s thoughts.
She leans back, gazing up at the patches of blue sky. A lone hawk circles high above.
Geoff nods, placing the notebook beside him on the log.
The silence that settles isn't empty. It's full of unformed plans and unspoken feelings.
Geoff watches her profile, serene against the backdrop of the waking forest. He thinks of strawberries, of cucumber jars, of the sharp taste of wild mint.
He thinks of building a future, right here, with her. The thought makes the chill spring air feel a little warmer.
The notebook, a story from the past, sits beside them. But Geoff isn't looking at it. He's looking at Sandy, at the shared horizon that is just beginning to take shape.
FADE OUT.
SOUND of mud SQUELCHING, sucking with each step
The ground is a mess of thawing earth and slick, brown leaves. Skeletal trees reach for a pale spring sky. The air is sharp, smelling of wet dirt and new growth.
GEOFF (17), pragmatic and observant, plods through the muck. His boots are caked.
A few paces ahead, SANDY (17), energetic and sure-footed, pivots on a rock, her worn boots steady. Wisps of dark hair have escaped her braid, clinging to flushed cheeks. She calls over her shoulder, a laugh in her voice.
SANDY
> You’re going to get stuck, you know.
Geoff pulls a boot free with a wet *SHLUPP*. His breath puffs out in a white cloud.
GEOFF
> Never. I’m a professional mud-walker.
He watches her, the way the low sun catches the loose strands of her hair. The way she grins without quite looking at him.
SANDY
> Oh, a professional, are we? Then perhaps you can explain why your left boot looks suspiciously like it’s trying to become one with the trail?
Geoff looks down. The dark soil has swallowed his ankle. He tugs. It comes free with another satisfying squelch.
Sandy laughs, a bright, clear sound that cuts through the quiet woods.
GEOFF
> Alright, fine, I’m a semi-professional. But point taken. We’re going to be tracking half the forest into your dad’s truck.
She turns to face him, hands stuffed in the pockets of a well-loved canvas jacket.
SANDY
> That’s okay. He expects it. It’s part of the land lab charm, isn’t it? Proof of a good day’s… exploration.
She gestures at the bare branches overhead, where a faint green haze of buds is just beginning to show.
GEOFF
> Exploration of what, exactly? Mostly just mud and the promise of mosquitoes.
SANDY
>>(scoffs, smiling)
> Optimist. The promise of a new season, Geoff. New growth. This is when the magic starts.
GEOFF
> Magic that involves a lot of digging and fending off deer, if last summer was anything to go by.
He can't help but grin at the memory.
SANDY
> Speaking of which. Think the strawberries will be as prolific this year? I’m still dreaming of those jam batches.
GEOFF
> If we get another run like that, we’ll be set for life. Remember the cucumber glut? Your mum was trying to pawn off jars of pickles on everyone in a ten-kilometre radius.
SANDY
>>(laughing)
> They were good pickles! And don’t pretend you didn’t hoard a few. Your dad’s a fiend for a good dill spear.
They walk in comfortable silence. The trail narrows, weaving between skeletal birch and ancient spruce.
SOUND of a distant river, swollen with snowmelt
Suddenly, Sandy stops. She holds up a hand. Geoff nearly bumps into her.
GEOFF
> Whoa, what is it?
He peers over her shoulder. Her eyes are wide. She points.
ANGLE ON -- A FALLEN LOG
Tucked into a hollow, almost entirely swallowed by a rich carpet of emerald moss, is something dark and rectangular. It doesn't belong.
SANDY
>>(whispering)
> Look.
She steps closer, transfixed. Geoff follows, leaning down.
He brushes away a patch of damp moss.
CLOSE ON -- A NOTEBOOK
The dark, worn leather of a small journal reveals itself. It’s ancient. The moss has left faint green stains along its spine. A tightly coiled fiddlehead brushes against Geoff's knuckles.
GEOFF
>>(murmuring)
> Someone just… left it?
SANDY
>>(a breath)
> Or maybe it was lost. A long time ago.
She looks at him. An unspoken question passes between them. *Do we open it?*
GEOFF
> It’s not… ours.
SANDY
> No, but… who would leave something like this? It looks important.
Geoff carefully picks it up. It’s surprisingly heavy. The leather is cool and damp. No lock, no clasp. The corners are scuffed, the edges softened by time.
Sandy leans in close, her hair brushing his arm. He fumbles slightly, his heart thumping. He eases the cover open.
A faint, musty smell of old paper and dried leaves wafts out.
The pages are yellowed, brittle. They are filled with faint, looping script in faded ink.
SANDY
>>(whispering)
> Anything?
GEOFF
> Just… writing. Looks like a journal. Old. Very old.
He doesn't try to read it. He meets Sandy's eyes, a silent understanding. This requires more than a quick glance on a muddy trail.
He closes the cover gently and tucks the notebook inside his jacket. A comfortable weight against his chest.
They continue their walk. The sun climbs higher, warming the air.
SOUND of spring peepers swelling from a nearby swamp
SANDY
> So, the big plans for the new year.
GEOFF
> We need a strategy. Can’t just grow things and hope for the best again. Not if we want this thing to really take off.
SANDY
> Agreed. What if we make something? Like, a proper product. Not just raw vegetables.
GEOFF
> A product? Like… more jam?
SANDY
> Think bigger. Something unique. Something that really showcases what this region has to offer.
She stops, bending to inspect a patch of tiny, budding plants near the trail. She plucks a single green leaf, crushes it between her fingers, and holds it out to him.
SANDY
> Smell this. Wild mint.
Geoff leans in. The scent is potent, earthy, undeniably fresh.
GEOFF
> Wild mint… interesting. Maybe a savoury application? Mint jelly? That’s getting pretty gourmet, though. People might not take us seriously.
SANDY
>>(eyes bright)
> Exactly! That’s part of the challenge, isn’t it? How do we take something simple, something local, and elevate it? Make it something people *want* to pay for?
Her enthusiasm is infectious. Geoff finds himself grinning.
GEOFF
> Okay, okay. So, we’re thinking beyond straight-up produce. Something with a local flavour profile. And we’re leveraging the land lab’s bounty. Which, by the way, we still have to plant.
SANDY
>>(rolling her eyes)
> Details, details. The grand vision first, then the back-breaking labour. What about, like, a spruce tip syrup? Or a berry vinegar? Something tart and bright.
GEOFF
> Berry vinegar. That actually has legs. Like a shrub. Raspberry vinegar. Or chokecherry, if we can get enough. They’re finicky.
He likes it. The idea feels sophisticated, yet rooted here.
SANDY
> See? You’re getting it! And that ties into the bigger picture. Small communities like ours… we face a lot of challenges. Getting young people to stay.
Her expression turns serious, her gaze distant.
GEOFF
> Yeah.
The playful energy fades, replaced by a grounded, thoughtful tone.
SANDY
> So, if we could create something here. Something that uses local resources, creates even a few local jobs… that’s creative entrepreneurship, isn’t it? Not just making money, but building something for *here*.
Her voice holds a fierce passion.
GEOFF
> It is. But it’s a huge undertaking. We’d need proper equipment, a commercial kitchen, permits… all that boring stuff.
SANDY
> Boring, yes, but necessary. But we have the land lab. We have the community’s support. We’d have a network.
They approach a small clearing. Sunlight streams down, illuminating patches of startlingly vibrant new grass.
GEOFF
> So, what’s the first step? Dreaming is good, but execution is what counts.
Sandy stops, turning to face him fully. The sun catches her hair, turning it into a warm halo. Her expression is serious, yet alight with possibility.
SANDY
> The first step is to decide what our hero product is. Our signature. Something that screams ‘Northwestern Ontario’. Something that’s *ours*.
Geoff’s breath hitches, just a little. He feels the weight of the notebook against his chest.
GEOFF
>>(softly)
> Something that’s ours.
The words hang in the air between them, suddenly meaning more than just a food product.
SANDY
> Exactly.
Her eyes hold his. A silent understanding passes between them. A shared commitment.
EXT. WOODS, CLEARING - LATER
The sun is lower, bathing the clearing in golden light.
Geoff and Sandy sit on a fallen log, softened by moss. The air is still.
Geoff pulls the notebook from his jacket, its cover still slightly damp. He holds it out.
Sandy reaches, her fingers brushing his. A fleeting, electric contact. But she doesn't take it. She just looks at the worn cover, then at him.
SANDY
>>(softly)
> Later. Let’s just… let the ideas sit for a bit. Before we get lost in someone else’s thoughts.
She leans back, gazing up at the patches of blue sky. A lone hawk circles high above.
Geoff nods, placing the notebook beside him on the log.
The silence that settles isn't empty. It's full of unformed plans and unspoken feelings.
Geoff watches her profile, serene against the backdrop of the waking forest. He thinks of strawberries, of cucumber jars, of the sharp taste of wild mint.
He thinks of building a future, right here, with her. The thought makes the chill spring air feel a little warmer.
The notebook, a story from the past, sits beside them. But Geoff isn't looking at it. He's looking at Sandy, at the shared horizon that is just beginning to take shape.
FADE OUT.