A Script for Maple Syrup and Cold Feet

INT. MRS. THOMAS'S KITCHEN - MORNING

A room worn down by time. Faded floral wallpaper, a Formica tabletop scarred with decades of use. Weak spring sun filters through a window, illuminating dust motes and the puddles in a driveway outside.

SOUND of a dripping faucet, a humming refrigerator

TYLER (20s), introspective, sits at the table. He picks at a dried smear of maple syrup with his thumbnail. His coffee mug is mostly cold.

<center>TYLER</center>

> It's just sitting there.

His voice is flat, swallowed by the room.

MRS. THOMAS (70s) sits opposite him. Her hands, wrapped around a chipped ceramic mug, tremble slightly. She sighs, a sound that deflates the air.

<center>MRS. THOMAS</center>

> Been sitting there for fifty years. More. Since the big flood of '78. Nobody's touched it since.

She looks up. Her eyes, usually bright, are shadowed with fatigue.

Tyler shifts. The cheap plastic chair GROANS under his weight. He runs a hand over his short, rough haircut.

The back door bursts open.

SANDRA (20s) enters like a whirlwind. Damp denim jacket, faded band hoodie, restless energy. She tracks a fine film of mud across the linoleum floor.

<center>SANDRA</center>

> Morning, Mrs. H! Tyler, still half-asleep?

She grins, pulls out a chair opposite Tyler. The table JOLTS. Coffee sloshes in their mugs.

BEN (20s) follows her in, quieter, more deliberate. He rubs his hands together for warmth.

<center>BEN</center>

> Coffee's cold.

He moves to the perpetually humming drip machine on the counter, finds a clean mug, and pours himself a fresh cup.

Sandra leans forward, elbows on the table, a spark in her eyes.

<center>SANDRA</center>

> The hall. The basement. It's perfect. Concrete floors, high ceilings, mostly. We could paint the walls white. Install track lighting. It'd be like, a real gallery. A real cultural hub. Not just a place for—

>(beat)

>—Bingo nights and church bazaars, you know?

Mrs. Thomas stares down into her mug.

<center>MRS. THOMAS</center>

>(murmuring)

> Used to be the fallout shelter. After the Cuban Missile Crisis. Stocked with powdered milk and crackers.

>(beat)

> The powdered milk went bad, eventually. The crackers, too. Even the rats wouldn't touch 'em.

She takes a slow, deliberate sip. Sandra’s enthusiasm flickers. Just for a second.

<center>SANDRA</center>

> Okay, but that was ancient history, Mrs. H. Now it could be *new*. Modern. A space for local artists. Musicians. Poets, even!

Ben sits down, pulling his chair in carefully. He blows steam off his coffee, fogging his glasses.

<center>BEN</center>

> What about the leaks? That west wall, I heard it always seeps. And the electrical. Last time I was down there, the wiring looked like spaghetti that had spent a winter under the snow. Not to mention the asbestos tile. Probably.

<center>SANDRA</center>

>(rolling her eyes)

> Details, Ben, details! We'll get grants! Fundraisers! Community spirit! This town needs something like this, doesn't it, Mrs. H? Something vibrant.

Mrs. Thomas finally looks up from her mug, her expression unreadable.

<center>MRS. THOMAS</center>

> Community spirit.

>(beat)

> We had a lot of that, for the library expansion. Went through three committees, two town council votes, and five years. Ended up with a new coat of paint in the existing building. And a pamphlet rack. Paid for by a bake sale that barely covered the cost of flour.

A small, almost imperceptible shrug. The final word.

A knot tightens in Tyler's stomach. He takes a long sip of his bitter, lukewarm coffee.

The back door opens again. MR. JENKINS (60s), built like an oak tree in a grease-stained denim jacket, ambles in. His work boots THUD softly on the linoleum.

<center>MR. JENKINS</center>

> Morning, folks.

He moves to the coffee machine, pours a black coffee into a mug, not sitting until it's done.

<center>MR. JENKINS</center>

>(grunting)

> Talking about that hole in the ground again? The rec hall basement? Thought we buried that idea years ago.

<center>SANDRA</center>

> No, Mr. Jenkins, we're bringing it back! It's got potential! Think: a clean, modern space. White walls. Local art. Maybe a small stage for open mic nights?

Mr. Jenkins lets out a deep, rumbling SNORT.

<center>MR. JENKINS</center>

> White walls, eh? You know what white walls get you in that basement? Mold. Black mold. Had to burn half the old Halloween decorations they stored down there.

>(sips his coffee)

> And a stage? You'd need a permit for that. Electrical inspection. Fire marshals, probably. They love sniffing around anything that looks like fun.

Sandra's shoulders slump. Tyler watches her, then looks down at his hands.

<center>TYLER'S POV - A QUICK, SHAKY FLASHBACK</center>

<center>INT. REC HALL BASEMENT - (A FEW YEARS AGO) - NIGHT</center>

A vast, cavernous space. Concrete pillars. Exposed pipes drip condensation. A single, bare fluorescent fixture FLICKERS and BUZZES, casting long, dancing shadows. Peeling paint. Spiderwebs thick as cotton. The air is thick with the smell of mildew and stagnant water.

<center>BACK TO SCENE</center>

Tyler blinks, the memory fading. The kitchen feels colder.

<center>SANDRA</center>

>(voice a little higher)

> But there are grants for this kind of thing, right? Community development. Arts funding. We just need to write a proposal.

Ben sets his mug down with a soft CLINK.

<center>BEN</center>

> A good proposal needs numbers. Engineers. Estimates for structural repairs. HVAC. Proper ventilation to fight the damp. Accessibility ramps. A new fire escape. The one down there looked like it was from a shipwreck.

<center>MRS. THOMAS</center>

>(almost to herself)

> And liability. Someone slips on the damp floor. A light fixture falls. The town council won't touch it with a ten-foot pole if there's any chance of a lawsuit. They're still paying off the settlement from the municipal ice rink incident.

<center>MR. JENKINS</center>

>(a dry chuckle)

> That Zamboni incident was a beaut. No, kids, you want to open a place for arts and culture, you find a place that ain't actively trying to kill you with tetanus and legal fees.

Sandra looks from face to face, her eyes wide, searching for an ally. Her voice is tighter.

<center>SANDRA</center>

> We could start small. Like, a pop-up gallery. Just for a weekend. Show them the potential.

<center>MR. JENKINS</center>

>(rubbing his chin)

> Pop-up. That implies it pops back down, then, right? Smart. No long-term commitment. Less paperwork.

Ben is already scribbling numbers on a napkin.

<center>BEN</center>

> Okay, if it's a pop-up, we still need basic safety. Clear fire exits. Temporary lighting. Insurance. Who's covering the insurance for a private venture in a municipal building?

<center>MRS. THOMAS</center>

> The council would want a full proposal, even for a weekend. They'd want to know what kind of art. Whether it aligns with 'community values.'

The words "community values" hang in the air. Tyler visibly flinches, a memory crossing his face.

Sandra's bright energy is draining away. Her voice is almost a whisper now.

<center>SANDRA</center>

> We could get local businesses to sponsor... Like, 'The Corner Store Gallery,' or 'Davidson's Hardware Presents...'

<center>MR. JENKINS</center>

>(laughing)

> Davidson's Hardware presents 'Another Failed Idea'! Now *that* has a ring to it.

The life has gone out of the room. The conversation dies.

SOUND of a distant plow truck spreading gravel on a highway.

Tyler scrapes at the maple syrup again. A stubborn shard finally comes loose with a faint CRACKLE.

Outside, a fine mist begins to fall. The puddles in the driveway go dark and flat. The weak light in the kitchen seems to dim.

Mrs. Thomas leans back in her chair, a soft CREAK.

<center>MRS. THOMAS</center>

> It's a lot of work. A lot of dreaming.

>(beat)

> And dreaming can be… tiring. Especially when you're doing it in the dark.

A shiver runs down Tyler's spine. He looks at the quiet faces, the half-eaten pastries, Ben's discarded napkin.

He stares out the window at the grey, misty day. The feeling of cold, damp inertia is absolute.

SOUND of a single, steady DRIP... DRIP... DRIP... as if from a pipe in a dark, forgotten basement.

CLOSE ON Tyler's face. His fragile hope is gone, replaced by a grim, chilling understanding.

FADE TO BLACK.