A Season of Dissolution
Leaf walks the river's edge, caught in the unsettling embrace of an uncanny spring, where the natural world seems to fray and re-stitch itself in disquieting ways.
TITLE: A SEASON OF DISSOLUTION
[SCENE START]
**EXT. RIVERBANK - DAY**
A forest drenched in HYPER-REAL GREEN. The color is oversaturated, almost sickeningly vibrant. The air hangs heavy, humid, smelling vaguely of metal.
SOUND: A churning RIVER, its pulse a rapid, uneven beat.
THE WALKER (30s-50s), dressed in practical walking gear, moves along the bank. Their boots sink into the soft loam with a wet SQUELCH with each step.
They keep their eyes fixed on the water, a deliberate avoidance of the deeper woods where shadows pool like spilled ink even in the midday light.
The Walker's gaze snags on something in the current.
CLOSE ON - A single, perfect ROBIN'S EGG, pale blue and uncracked, tumbles past in the churning water. It looks placed, deliberate.
The Walker follows its path, unsettled. A moment later, another object catches their eye.
A tangle of bleached ROOTS, shaped uncannily like a skeletal hand, gets snagged on a rock before the current rips it free and pulls it downstream.
A knot of dread tightens on the Walker's face.
**EXT. RIVER INLET - DAY (CONTINUOUS)**
The Walker stops at a small inlet where the water slows. A thin layer of foam gathers against the bank.
They kneel, knees sinking into the mud. Their hand reaches into the shallow water, fingers probing the smooth stones.
They pull out a STONE. It's larger than their palm, perfectly ovoid, its surface impossibly smooth. Its color is a uniform, deep grey, utterly devoid of any vein or fleck.
CLOSE ON THE STONE
It feels ancient, yet manufactured. The Walker turns it over and over. A faint, low vibration seems to emanate from it, a HUM felt more in the bone than on the skin.
SOUND: A sharp TWIG SNAP from directly behind.
The Walker spins around, heart hammering. The stone clutched tight in their fist.
The woods are still. Only the gentle sway of young birches in the dappled light. But the feeling is palpable now: they are being watched.
The Walker shoves the stone into their pocket, its alien smoothness pressing against their thigh. They rise and continue on, the pace more urgent now.
**EXT. DEEP WOODS - LATER**
The path has narrowed to a deer trail. The trees close in, weaving a tight canopy overhead. The green here is deeper, older, absorbing the light.
SOUND: The river is a distant rush, replaced by an unnerving quiet.
Through the trees, the Walker sees it: a massive, ancient OAK, its trunk gnarled, its branches like arthritic fingers.
But something is profoundly wrong.
The Walker creeps closer, their movements slow, cautious.
ANGLE ON THE BARK
The rough, fissured surface seems to RIPPLE. A slow, subtle, rhythmic expansion and contraction. The tree is BREATHING.
SOUND: A deep, internal THRUM vibrates up through the soles of the Walker's boots.
The air around the tree is thick, viscous. It smells of damp earth and something cloying, like overripe fruit.
The Walker reaches out a hesitant hand, fingers hovering inches from the moving bark, a mix of terror and fascination on their face.
As their fingers are about to touch the bark--
The world LURCHES.
A jarring, instantaneous shift. The vibrant green vanishes, replaced by the deep RUSSET of AUTUMN. The leaves on the breathing oak are crisp and brown. The air turns cold, smelling sharply of PINE. The river below is a sheet of polished obsidian.
It lasts only a second.
SNAP.
Just as quickly, it's back. The aggressive green of spring. The humid, metallic air. The rhythmic swell of the bark.
The Walker stumbles back, breath catching in their throat, tripping over a root. Pure panic in their eyes. This is not in their head. It's real.
They scramble away, casting terrified glances back at the breathing oak, which continues its slow respiration, indifferent.
**EXT. FOREST PATH - LATER**
The Walker moves quickly now, a paranoid energy to their stride. Every sense is on high alert.
SOUND: Birdsong is fragmented, out of sync. A low, persistent HUM seems to emanate from the ground itself.
The Walker's eyes dart around, noticing every inconsistency:
- A young sapling, its trunk twisted into an impossible, painful-looking curve.
- The new leaves, looking brittle, as if they could tear away from the branches.
They burst into a small clearing, washed in brilliant, blinding sunlight.
For a moment, it feels normal. The Walker closes their eyes, trying to catch their breath.
When they open them, they see it.
In the center of the clearing stands a single, enormous DANDELION. Its stem is as thick as a thumb, its golden head a perfect, aggressively radiant orb. It's a banner for this broken, unnatural world.
Cold dread washes over the Walker's face.
**EXT. FOOTBRIDGE - LATER**
The Walker reaches an old wooden footbridge, slick with moss. This is the end of their usual loop.
But the path ahead, the one leading home, seems to stretch out, longer, less defined. The forest on the other side is a dense, impenetrable wall of shifting, too-deep green.
The feeling of home is gone. It's an alien landscape.
SOUND: The river rushes below. The disconnected birdsong. The low, insistent HUM is louder now.
The Walker's hand goes to their pocket. They pull out the GREY STONE. It feels cold, heavy in their palm.
CLOSE ON THE STONE
A single, solid point in a dissolving world.
The Walker stands frozen on the bridge, clutching the stone. The light begins to fade, but the aggressive green of the leaves seems to glow with an unsettling inner light.
Their face is a mask of terrified acceptance. They are no longer a visitor here. They are an inhabitant.
The ancient, patient gaze of the forest settles upon them, finding nothing at all amiss.
[SCENE END]
[SCENE START]
**EXT. RIVERBANK - DAY**
A forest drenched in HYPER-REAL GREEN. The color is oversaturated, almost sickeningly vibrant. The air hangs heavy, humid, smelling vaguely of metal.
SOUND: A churning RIVER, its pulse a rapid, uneven beat.
THE WALKER (30s-50s), dressed in practical walking gear, moves along the bank. Their boots sink into the soft loam with a wet SQUELCH with each step.
They keep their eyes fixed on the water, a deliberate avoidance of the deeper woods where shadows pool like spilled ink even in the midday light.
The Walker's gaze snags on something in the current.
CLOSE ON - A single, perfect ROBIN'S EGG, pale blue and uncracked, tumbles past in the churning water. It looks placed, deliberate.
The Walker follows its path, unsettled. A moment later, another object catches their eye.
A tangle of bleached ROOTS, shaped uncannily like a skeletal hand, gets snagged on a rock before the current rips it free and pulls it downstream.
A knot of dread tightens on the Walker's face.
**EXT. RIVER INLET - DAY (CONTINUOUS)**
The Walker stops at a small inlet where the water slows. A thin layer of foam gathers against the bank.
They kneel, knees sinking into the mud. Their hand reaches into the shallow water, fingers probing the smooth stones.
They pull out a STONE. It's larger than their palm, perfectly ovoid, its surface impossibly smooth. Its color is a uniform, deep grey, utterly devoid of any vein or fleck.
CLOSE ON THE STONE
It feels ancient, yet manufactured. The Walker turns it over and over. A faint, low vibration seems to emanate from it, a HUM felt more in the bone than on the skin.
SOUND: A sharp TWIG SNAP from directly behind.
The Walker spins around, heart hammering. The stone clutched tight in their fist.
The woods are still. Only the gentle sway of young birches in the dappled light. But the feeling is palpable now: they are being watched.
The Walker shoves the stone into their pocket, its alien smoothness pressing against their thigh. They rise and continue on, the pace more urgent now.
**EXT. DEEP WOODS - LATER**
The path has narrowed to a deer trail. The trees close in, weaving a tight canopy overhead. The green here is deeper, older, absorbing the light.
SOUND: The river is a distant rush, replaced by an unnerving quiet.
Through the trees, the Walker sees it: a massive, ancient OAK, its trunk gnarled, its branches like arthritic fingers.
But something is profoundly wrong.
The Walker creeps closer, their movements slow, cautious.
ANGLE ON THE BARK
The rough, fissured surface seems to RIPPLE. A slow, subtle, rhythmic expansion and contraction. The tree is BREATHING.
SOUND: A deep, internal THRUM vibrates up through the soles of the Walker's boots.
The air around the tree is thick, viscous. It smells of damp earth and something cloying, like overripe fruit.
The Walker reaches out a hesitant hand, fingers hovering inches from the moving bark, a mix of terror and fascination on their face.
As their fingers are about to touch the bark--
The world LURCHES.
A jarring, instantaneous shift. The vibrant green vanishes, replaced by the deep RUSSET of AUTUMN. The leaves on the breathing oak are crisp and brown. The air turns cold, smelling sharply of PINE. The river below is a sheet of polished obsidian.
It lasts only a second.
SNAP.
Just as quickly, it's back. The aggressive green of spring. The humid, metallic air. The rhythmic swell of the bark.
The Walker stumbles back, breath catching in their throat, tripping over a root. Pure panic in their eyes. This is not in their head. It's real.
They scramble away, casting terrified glances back at the breathing oak, which continues its slow respiration, indifferent.
**EXT. FOREST PATH - LATER**
The Walker moves quickly now, a paranoid energy to their stride. Every sense is on high alert.
SOUND: Birdsong is fragmented, out of sync. A low, persistent HUM seems to emanate from the ground itself.
The Walker's eyes dart around, noticing every inconsistency:
- A young sapling, its trunk twisted into an impossible, painful-looking curve.
- The new leaves, looking brittle, as if they could tear away from the branches.
They burst into a small clearing, washed in brilliant, blinding sunlight.
For a moment, it feels normal. The Walker closes their eyes, trying to catch their breath.
When they open them, they see it.
In the center of the clearing stands a single, enormous DANDELION. Its stem is as thick as a thumb, its golden head a perfect, aggressively radiant orb. It's a banner for this broken, unnatural world.
Cold dread washes over the Walker's face.
**EXT. FOOTBRIDGE - LATER**
The Walker reaches an old wooden footbridge, slick with moss. This is the end of their usual loop.
But the path ahead, the one leading home, seems to stretch out, longer, less defined. The forest on the other side is a dense, impenetrable wall of shifting, too-deep green.
The feeling of home is gone. It's an alien landscape.
SOUND: The river rushes below. The disconnected birdsong. The low, insistent HUM is louder now.
The Walker's hand goes to their pocket. They pull out the GREY STONE. It feels cold, heavy in their palm.
CLOSE ON THE STONE
A single, solid point in a dissolving world.
The Walker stands frozen on the bridge, clutching the stone. The light begins to fade, but the aggressive green of the leaves seems to glow with an unsettling inner light.
Their face is a mask of terrified acceptance. They are no longer a visitor here. They are an inhabitant.
The ancient, patient gaze of the forest settles upon them, finding nothing at all amiss.
[SCENE END]