A Script for The Grey December Hum

INT. HOUSING UNIT - DAY

A thin sheet of ice clings to a ferrocrete window sill.

LEO (17), cynical and weary, watches the world outside. His breath fogs the grimy glass.

EXT. CITYSCAPE (LEO'S POV) - DAY

A perpetual grey sky, thick with atmospheric filtration haze. Oversized DISPLAY DRONES buzz like mechanical moths, painting the air in sterile, flickering reds and greens.

Below, citizens in standard-issue cold-weather suits move with practiced, joyless cheer, clutching festive-variant RATION PACKS. No one lingers.

INT. HOUSING UNIT - DAY

The room is small, grim. The air is thin, recycled, tasting of metal.

In a corner, MOM (40s) sits before a flickering DISPLAY SCREEN cycling through approved holiday messaging. Her face is a blank mask. Her chapped, raw fingers pick at a loose thread on her sleeve. She stares through the screen, lost.

CATHERINE (11) wrestles with a "CELEBRATION UNIT" -- a sad, metal pole with pre-drilled holes. It sags to one side. She tries to force a bent, glowing plastic rod into a slot.

<center>CATHERINE</center>

> You gonna help or just watch the sky fall?

Leo pushes off the window.

<center>LEO</center>

> It’s falling already, isn’t it?

Catherine grunts, straining. The plastic rod SNAPS with a brittle CRACK. She lets out a quiet, frustrated breath.

<center>CATHERINE</center>

>>(muttering)

> Stupid thing.

She kicks the base. The unit sways.

Mom’s head turns slowly. Her voice is flat, a recitation.

<center>MOM</center>

> Catherine. Don’t break it. We’ll be flagged.

Leo kneels beside his sister. He picks up the two pieces of the snapped rod. Tiny wires are exposed. He pulls a small, precious strip of adhesive tape -- a forbidden item -- from his pocket.

Catherine watches, suspicious, as his fingers meticulously piece the rod back together. It’s a careful, resourceful act.

He presses the mended rod into its slot. A small, dark stub among the other glowing rods. It no longer glows, but it looks whole.

Catherine lets out a tiny exhale. A rare, genuine word hangs in the stale air.

<center>CATHERINE</center>

>>(whispering)

> Thanks.

Leo looks from the mended rod to his sister's face. A decision forms.

<center>LEO</center>

> I’m going to the Market.

Mom’s eyes flicker with something like worry.

<center>MOM</center>

> Don’t be late for the evening broadcast. And don’t… draw attention.

Catherine looks up, her eyes wide with a sliver of hope.

INT. CORRIDOR - CONTINUOUS

Leo walks down a cold, concrete corridor. Garbled, tinny carols pipe through unseen speakers.

<center>TINNY SPEAKER (V.O.)</center>

> (singing)

> Jingle bells, Authority! Order, all the way! Oh, what fun to follow rules, every single day!

INT. ELEVATOR - CONTINUOUS

The elevator cage shudders downwards. A few other RESIDENTS stand pressed together, faces impassive, avoiding eye contact.

EXT. PLAZA - DAY

Leo steps out into a biting wind. Fine, sharp snow falls. The ground is dusted in a thin, unforgiving layer.

Monolithic screens line the plaza walls, showing loops of smiling, Authority-approved families opening Authority-approved gifts.

Leo shoves his hands in his pockets, fingers finding the smooth, cool surface of a flattened, chipped TIN SOLDIER. He moves with the silent river of people.

EXT. SECTOR MARKET - DAY

A labyrinth of corrugated metal stalls. The air is thick with the smell of cheap synthetics and paranoia.

SEASONAL COMPLIANCE OFFICERS in stark black uniforms patrol the aisles, their presence a cold, constant pressure.

Leo passes stalls selling worn-out data-pads and dubious protein bars. His eyes linger on a display of "Memory Scraps" -- tiny, faded photo fragments of a forgotten world. A blue sky. Green grass.

He ducks into a narrow alley where the light barely reaches.

EXT. MARKET ALLEY - CONTINUOUS

Tucked behind discarded industrial components, a stall is lit by a single, sputtering lumen-lamp. LINDA (70s), her face a roadmap of wrinkles, polishes a tarnished copper trinket. Her stall is a museum of forbidden items: rusty gears, smooth river stones, a cracked porcelain doll.

<center>LINDA</center>

>>(raspy)

> Something you need, child?

<center>LEO</center>

>>(a whisper)

> I’m… looking for something. Something… festive.

Linda’s sharp, intelligent eyes meet his. She understands the code. She slowly pushes aside a pile of woven scraps, revealing a small, velvet-lined box.

She opens it.

Inside, nestled on the worn fabric, is a small, glass ornament. A perfect sphere of deep, true blue, speckled with flecks of silver dust, mimicking a true night sky.

Leo’s breath catches. Linda places it in his palm. It’s cool, smooth, and heavy with history. It doesn’t glow. It doesn’t hum. It just *is*.

<center>LINDA</center>

> From before. Real glass. Real pigment. They don’t make them like that anymore.

>>(beat)

> Said it was meant for a… pine tree. To hang on a branch.

<center>LEO</center>

> How much?

Linda names a price that would deplete his ration credits for two weeks. She sees the desperate hope in his eyes.

<center>LINDA</center>

> For you… and for the quiet hope in your eyes… fifty percent less. But you tell no one where you got it. No one.

Leo’s throat is tight. He nods, counting out the flat metal discs. He hands them over.

He carefully wraps the ornament in his remaining tape and tucks it into his inner pocket. A warm, secret weight against his chest.

INT. HOUSING UNIT - NIGHT

The Celebration Broadcast drones from the display screen. DAD (40s) is home, slumped in a chair, his eyes glazed over. Mom sits beside him, still.

Catherine sits by the sagging Celebration Unit, chin on her knees, her earlier spark gone.

Leo enters quietly. He waits for a mandated moment of "personal reflection" on the broadcast. The room falls silent.

He walks to Catherine. He pulls the blue glass ornament from his pocket.

It glints in the dim light, a tiny, silent supernova.

Catherine’s eyes widen. She reaches out a hesitant, trembling hand and touches the cool, smooth glass. The silver flecks shimmer.

She doesn’t ask. She just knows.

Slowly, carefully, she finds a sturdy spot on one of the metal branches, near the top. She hangs the blue, star-speckled globe.

It doesn’t glow. It doesn’t hum.

It hangs there, a silent, defiant beauty. A single point of authentic color in the grey room, reflecting a universe of forgotten stars.

For a moment, the drone hum from outside fades. The broadcast is silent. There is only the quiet, shimmering truth of the blue glass.

A soft, unpracticed smile touches Catherine’s lips. Leo watches her, a small, forbidden warmth ignited in his chest. A shared, secret hope.