Unfurling Bark
Two strangers, drawn together by a shared bench in a Winnipeg park, find their casual conversation about a wilting tree branch spiralling into a tense exchange about societal division, leaving more unsaid than spoken.
[SCENE START]
**EXT. CITY PARK - DAY**
A vast, flat park under a bruised, late-autumn sky. The air is still, holding a deep chill. The colour is drained from the world, leaving only muted browns and concrete greys.
BRIAN (30s), an architect, sits alone on a long park bench. He's wrapped in a scarf and a decent coat, but he still looks cold. His focus is absolute, fixed on a single branch of a large, otherwise healthy OAK TREE.
The branch DROOPS, its handful of shrivelled, brown leaves clinging on with theatrical desperation.
SOUND of distant, muted traffic hum
Brian squints. Trying to diagnose the tree from fifty feet away.
SOUND of gravel CRUNCHING nearby.
Brian shifts, breaking his concentration. He tries to look casual, like he was just enjoying the view.
SIMONE (30s) settles at the far end of the long bench. She wears a dark coat pulled tight, thin wire-rimmed spectacles catching the dull light. Her hair is pulled back severely from a face with a strong profile. A worn leather SKETCHBOOK rests on her lap.
She doesn't look at Brian. Her gaze is fixed on a skeletal willow tree in the distance. The space between them on the bench feels vast.
A long beat of shared silence. Brian glances at her, then back at the branch. He can't help himself.
BRIAN
> (a bit rusty)
> That branch.
His voice is too loud in the quiet. Simone turns her head slowly. Her expression is unreadable. A small, faded SCAR sits just above her left eyebrow.
SIMONE
> (low, husky)
> The oak?
BRIAN
> Yeah. Looks like it's giving up. The rest of the tree looks fine, though. See?
He makes a vague, half-hearted gesture. She follows his gaze, considering the branch with an artist's intensity.
SIMONE
> Fungus, probably. Or just old age, taking its toll on the weakest part first.
> (a beat)
> Or maybe it's just decided it's had enough of all this.
A twitch at the corner of her mouth. Not quite a smile. Her eyes hold a weary amusement that Brian finds unnerving.
BRIAN
> Had enough of what? Being a tree?
He tries for a light tone. It lands with no weight.
SIMONE
> Of being part of the whole. Of being connected. The system's breaking down, branch by branch, isn't it?
She runs a thumb over the soft, buttery leather of her sketchbook. Brian feels a knot of anxiety tighten in his chest.
BRIAN
> That's... a bit dramatic for a tree branch, don't you think?
A gust of wind sends a spiral of dead leaves skittering across the path like nervous animals. Brian shivers.
SIMONE
> Is it? Or is it just a microcosm? Everything's connected. A tree in a park in Winnipeg. A community. A country. You can see the rot, if you look close enough. Starts small, then...
She gives a small, cynical shrug. She finally looks at him properly. Her brown eyes are direct, making him feel suddenly exposed.
BRIAN
> I work with structures. Buildings. You see a crack, you fix it. You reinforce it. You don't just... assume the whole thing is coming down.
He picks at a loose thread on his scarf. A nervous habit.
SIMONE
> And do you? Fix it? Or do you just patch over the symptoms while the foundations crumble?
> (leans forward slightly)
> People build walls, don't they? Metaphorical ones. And they stop listening. Then they stop seeing the cracks in anyone else's walls.
The scar above her eye seems to stand out more. Brian exhales, his breath a white puff in the air.
BRIAN
> It's not that simple, surely. People just... have different ideas. Stronger opinions, maybe, than they used to.
SIMONE
> "Different ideas" is a polite way of saying "entrenched positions from which no one will budge an inch," wouldn't you say? It's a competition of grievances now. Who's more offended? Who's been wronged the most?
She looks out at the empty spaces of the park.
SIMONE
> (CONT'D)
> It feels... brittle, doesn't it?
A single, shrivelled leaf, identical to those on the dying branch, detaches from a tree overhead and drifts down, landing silently on the cover of her sketchbook.
BRIAN
> I suppose it does. But then, it's always been like that, to some extent. Humans, we're tribal. We find our groups, we defend them. It's evolutionary.
SIMONE
> And has "evolutionary" ever been an excuse for "good"?
She turns the leaf over with a gloved finger.
SIMONE
> (CONT'D)
> We had a chance, I think. Post-internet. To connect, to understand. Instead, we just found louder megaphones for our biases. Amplified every division until the centre just... vanished.
She looks at him, her gaze steady, questioning.
SIMONE
> (CONT'D)
> Do you feel it? That missing centre?
SOUND of a distant JAY screeching, harsh and ugly.
Brian looks away. He does feel it. Every day. A subtle tremor starts in his right leg.
BRIAN
> I think... I think people are tired. Tired of fighting, tired of being told they're wrong, tired of trying to understand. It's easier to just... retreat. To your own side.
SIMONE
> And who profits from that exhaustion? From that retreat? Not us. We just get colder, more isolated. And the gaps between us become canyons.
> (a beat)
> Or maybe I'm just a cynic. Is that it? You think I'm just seeing the worst in things?
BRIAN
> I think you're seeing... a perspective. A valid one. But maybe not the only one. There are still people trying. Still bridges being built, even if they're small. Community projects. People still care about their neighbours, even if they vote differently.
SIMONE
> Are they? Or are they just building their own echo chambers, but with a bit more charitable window dressing? How many times do you actually, truly, talk to someone who fundamentally disagrees with you? About something that matters, I mean. Not just the weather, or a dying branch.
The question hangs in the cold air between them. Brian scratches the back of his neck. The silence stretches.
SOUND of a shopping cart's SQUEAKY WHEEL approaching.
A HOMELESS MAN shuffles past on the path behind them, pushing a rattling cart. Neither Brian nor Simone breaks their intense focus on each other. The squeaking wheel fades.
BRIAN
> (quietly)
> It's hard. It's emotionally taxing. People don't want to feel attacked.
SIMONE
> So, we retreat. Into our corners. And we point fingers. And then we wonder why the branch is dying.
She finally opens her sketchbook. With a precise, surgical movement, she draws a single, sharp, clean line down the center of the blank page with a charcoal pencil.
SIMONE
> (CONT'D)
> It's not just policy. Or politics. It's the instantaneous judgement. The assumption of malice. The refusal to even entertain the possibility that the other side might have a point, even a tiny one.
Brian watches the black line bisecting the white page. He leans forward, elbows on his knees, surrendering.
BRIAN
> (softly)
> What's the answer then?
Simone looks at the line she drew. Her sharp edges seem to soften. The cynicism falls away, revealing something underneath.
SIMONE
> (almost a whisper)
> I don't know. Maybe there isn't one. Maybe we just watch it all come down, bit by bit.
She looks up at him. For a fleeting second, he sees past her walls. He sees a profound, almost desperate sadness. A tiny tremor in the hand that holds the pencil.
A small red ROBIN lands on the bench in the space between them. It chirps once, then flits away into a thorny bush.
The moment of shared vulnerability hangs in the air. Brian opens his mouth to say something, anything, but no words come.
Simone gives a small, almost imperceptible shake of her head. The moment is over.
She snaps the sketchbook shut.
The sound is sharp. Final.
Without another glance, she pushes herself to her feet and walks away, her pace brisk and determined.
Brian watches her go, a storm of agitation and regret churning inside him. He wants to call out, to ask her name, to finish the conversation. The words are stuck in his throat.
She turns a bend in the path, disappearing behind a thicket of skeletal trees. The shadows there seem deeper, darker.
He is alone again. The silence she left behind is heavier than before.
And then, from just beyond the bend where she vanished...
A SOUND.
Low. Guttural. A deep, resonant MURMUR that is utterly unnatural. It seems to vibrate in Brian's bones, a sound of profound emptiness. It sends a spike of ice-cold dread down his spine.
He stares into the deepening shadows, his heart pounding. He is frozen to the bench, utterly terrified of what she just walked into.
**FADE TO BLACK.**
[SCENE END]
**EXT. CITY PARK - DAY**
A vast, flat park under a bruised, late-autumn sky. The air is still, holding a deep chill. The colour is drained from the world, leaving only muted browns and concrete greys.
BRIAN (30s), an architect, sits alone on a long park bench. He's wrapped in a scarf and a decent coat, but he still looks cold. His focus is absolute, fixed on a single branch of a large, otherwise healthy OAK TREE.
The branch DROOPS, its handful of shrivelled, brown leaves clinging on with theatrical desperation.
SOUND of distant, muted traffic hum
Brian squints. Trying to diagnose the tree from fifty feet away.
SOUND of gravel CRUNCHING nearby.
Brian shifts, breaking his concentration. He tries to look casual, like he was just enjoying the view.
SIMONE (30s) settles at the far end of the long bench. She wears a dark coat pulled tight, thin wire-rimmed spectacles catching the dull light. Her hair is pulled back severely from a face with a strong profile. A worn leather SKETCHBOOK rests on her lap.
She doesn't look at Brian. Her gaze is fixed on a skeletal willow tree in the distance. The space between them on the bench feels vast.
A long beat of shared silence. Brian glances at her, then back at the branch. He can't help himself.
BRIAN
> (a bit rusty)
> That branch.
His voice is too loud in the quiet. Simone turns her head slowly. Her expression is unreadable. A small, faded SCAR sits just above her left eyebrow.
SIMONE
> (low, husky)
> The oak?
BRIAN
> Yeah. Looks like it's giving up. The rest of the tree looks fine, though. See?
He makes a vague, half-hearted gesture. She follows his gaze, considering the branch with an artist's intensity.
SIMONE
> Fungus, probably. Or just old age, taking its toll on the weakest part first.
> (a beat)
> Or maybe it's just decided it's had enough of all this.
A twitch at the corner of her mouth. Not quite a smile. Her eyes hold a weary amusement that Brian finds unnerving.
BRIAN
> Had enough of what? Being a tree?
He tries for a light tone. It lands with no weight.
SIMONE
> Of being part of the whole. Of being connected. The system's breaking down, branch by branch, isn't it?
She runs a thumb over the soft, buttery leather of her sketchbook. Brian feels a knot of anxiety tighten in his chest.
BRIAN
> That's... a bit dramatic for a tree branch, don't you think?
A gust of wind sends a spiral of dead leaves skittering across the path like nervous animals. Brian shivers.
SIMONE
> Is it? Or is it just a microcosm? Everything's connected. A tree in a park in Winnipeg. A community. A country. You can see the rot, if you look close enough. Starts small, then...
She gives a small, cynical shrug. She finally looks at him properly. Her brown eyes are direct, making him feel suddenly exposed.
BRIAN
> I work with structures. Buildings. You see a crack, you fix it. You reinforce it. You don't just... assume the whole thing is coming down.
He picks at a loose thread on his scarf. A nervous habit.
SIMONE
> And do you? Fix it? Or do you just patch over the symptoms while the foundations crumble?
> (leans forward slightly)
> People build walls, don't they? Metaphorical ones. And they stop listening. Then they stop seeing the cracks in anyone else's walls.
The scar above her eye seems to stand out more. Brian exhales, his breath a white puff in the air.
BRIAN
> It's not that simple, surely. People just... have different ideas. Stronger opinions, maybe, than they used to.
SIMONE
> "Different ideas" is a polite way of saying "entrenched positions from which no one will budge an inch," wouldn't you say? It's a competition of grievances now. Who's more offended? Who's been wronged the most?
She looks out at the empty spaces of the park.
SIMONE
> (CONT'D)
> It feels... brittle, doesn't it?
A single, shrivelled leaf, identical to those on the dying branch, detaches from a tree overhead and drifts down, landing silently on the cover of her sketchbook.
BRIAN
> I suppose it does. But then, it's always been like that, to some extent. Humans, we're tribal. We find our groups, we defend them. It's evolutionary.
SIMONE
> And has "evolutionary" ever been an excuse for "good"?
She turns the leaf over with a gloved finger.
SIMONE
> (CONT'D)
> We had a chance, I think. Post-internet. To connect, to understand. Instead, we just found louder megaphones for our biases. Amplified every division until the centre just... vanished.
She looks at him, her gaze steady, questioning.
SIMONE
> (CONT'D)
> Do you feel it? That missing centre?
SOUND of a distant JAY screeching, harsh and ugly.
Brian looks away. He does feel it. Every day. A subtle tremor starts in his right leg.
BRIAN
> I think... I think people are tired. Tired of fighting, tired of being told they're wrong, tired of trying to understand. It's easier to just... retreat. To your own side.
SIMONE
> And who profits from that exhaustion? From that retreat? Not us. We just get colder, more isolated. And the gaps between us become canyons.
> (a beat)
> Or maybe I'm just a cynic. Is that it? You think I'm just seeing the worst in things?
BRIAN
> I think you're seeing... a perspective. A valid one. But maybe not the only one. There are still people trying. Still bridges being built, even if they're small. Community projects. People still care about their neighbours, even if they vote differently.
SIMONE
> Are they? Or are they just building their own echo chambers, but with a bit more charitable window dressing? How many times do you actually, truly, talk to someone who fundamentally disagrees with you? About something that matters, I mean. Not just the weather, or a dying branch.
The question hangs in the cold air between them. Brian scratches the back of his neck. The silence stretches.
SOUND of a shopping cart's SQUEAKY WHEEL approaching.
A HOMELESS MAN shuffles past on the path behind them, pushing a rattling cart. Neither Brian nor Simone breaks their intense focus on each other. The squeaking wheel fades.
BRIAN
> (quietly)
> It's hard. It's emotionally taxing. People don't want to feel attacked.
SIMONE
> So, we retreat. Into our corners. And we point fingers. And then we wonder why the branch is dying.
She finally opens her sketchbook. With a precise, surgical movement, she draws a single, sharp, clean line down the center of the blank page with a charcoal pencil.
SIMONE
> (CONT'D)
> It's not just policy. Or politics. It's the instantaneous judgement. The assumption of malice. The refusal to even entertain the possibility that the other side might have a point, even a tiny one.
Brian watches the black line bisecting the white page. He leans forward, elbows on his knees, surrendering.
BRIAN
> (softly)
> What's the answer then?
Simone looks at the line she drew. Her sharp edges seem to soften. The cynicism falls away, revealing something underneath.
SIMONE
> (almost a whisper)
> I don't know. Maybe there isn't one. Maybe we just watch it all come down, bit by bit.
She looks up at him. For a fleeting second, he sees past her walls. He sees a profound, almost desperate sadness. A tiny tremor in the hand that holds the pencil.
A small red ROBIN lands on the bench in the space between them. It chirps once, then flits away into a thorny bush.
The moment of shared vulnerability hangs in the air. Brian opens his mouth to say something, anything, but no words come.
Simone gives a small, almost imperceptible shake of her head. The moment is over.
She snaps the sketchbook shut.
The sound is sharp. Final.
Without another glance, she pushes herself to her feet and walks away, her pace brisk and determined.
Brian watches her go, a storm of agitation and regret churning inside him. He wants to call out, to ask her name, to finish the conversation. The words are stuck in his throat.
She turns a bend in the path, disappearing behind a thicket of skeletal trees. The shadows there seem deeper, darker.
He is alone again. The silence she left behind is heavier than before.
And then, from just beyond the bend where she vanished...
A SOUND.
Low. Guttural. A deep, resonant MURMUR that is utterly unnatural. It seems to vibrate in Brian's bones, a sound of profound emptiness. It sends a spike of ice-cold dread down his spine.
He stares into the deepening shadows, his heart pounding. He is frozen to the bench, utterly terrified of what she just walked into.
**FADE TO BLACK.**
[SCENE END]