A Script for An Unsettling Hum and the Porcelain Owl

INT. KITCHEN - MORNING

A bruised plum light seeps through a frost-covered window. The kitchen is small, cluttered with the artifacts of a long life. Every surface holds something.

AGNES (78), sharp and weary in a heavy wool cardigan, adjusts her old plastic spectacles. She peers at an electric kettle on the counter, which refuses to boil.

A chipped ceramic mug sits beside it, a single tea bag draped sadly over its rim. Agnes notices it, lets out a small, exasperated sigh.

She reaches for the tea bag, her fingers stiff and fumbling.

And then she hears it.

Not the clatter of the pipes or the wheeze of the old refrigerator. A low, resonant HUM. It vibrates just beneath the other sounds of the house, a subtle thrum.

Agnes freezes, tea bag suspended between her fingers. She listens. Her brow furrows. The hum is steady, distinct.

Her gaze drifts slowly upwards to a cluttered shelf above the kettle. Stacked cookbooks, a pot of dried basil, a faded photo... and a PORCELAIN OWL.

It’s a dreadful thing. One of its two glass eyes is missing, leaving a smooth, blank patch of ceramic. The other is a deep, knowing amber. Its wings are painted with faded forget-me-nots.

The hum is coming from the owl.

Agnes blinks. Twice.

<center>AGNES</center>

> (Muttering to herself)

> Oh, for heaven’s sake. Not you, too.

She reaches up, her hand bumping a precarious stack of cookbooks. She touches the owl. The porcelain is cool, smooth, but a faint TREMOR runs through it. The hum intensifies in her fingertips, a low ‘mmm-mmm-mmm’.

The single amber eye seems to GLEAM with a new intensity.

<center>AGNES</center>

> (To the owl)

> What is it, then? Are you getting ideas above your station? Is this a prelude to demanding millet seeds?

The owl, of course, does not reply.

But as she watches, the forget-me-not pattern on its left wing begins to RIPPLE. The blue bleeds into a startling magenta. The tiny flowers twist into gnarled roots, then shrink, reappearing as perfect, emerald green shamrocks.

The transformation lasts only a few seconds before the pattern reverts to the faded forget-me-nots.

Agnes’s lips thin into a severe line.

<center>AGNES</center>

> (To the empty air)

> Well, that’s just... unnecessary. We’ve had these discussions before, Bartholomew. About the value of sticking to the script. No improvisations.

The kettle finally begins to WHISTLE, a thin, reedy sound. Agnes ignores it.

The owl’s amber eye FLARES.

A shimmer, like heat haze, rises from its head. It forms a hazy, projected IMAGE in the air above the kettle. The image is small, grainy, the size of a teacup saucer.

It resolves. It’s her late husband, BARTHOLOMEW, in his late fifties. He wears a mustard-coloured tweed jacket she always hated, standing proudly next to a prize-winning cabbage.

A faint, weary smile touches Agnes’s lips. Then the image shifts.

A tiny, glittery tiara appears on Bartholomew’s head. He opens his mouth and begins to WARBLE, loudly and terribly, the chorus to ‘My Heart Will Go On’.

Agnes scoffs.

<center>AGNES</center>

> Oh, please. As if. He couldn’t carry a tune in a bucket. And a tiara? That’s just insulting.

The image flickers. Now Bartholomew stands on a diving board, wearing only a speedo. His physique is surprisingly toned. He flexes a bicep, then performs a perfect swan dive into an Olympic-sized pool.

He emerges to a throng of beautiful young women who rush to drape him in towels.

Agnes takes her mug, puts the tea bag inside, and pours the now-boiled water. She takes a slow sip of the weak tea.

<center>AGNES</center>

> Right. And I suppose in this version, I’m off on a world tour with a boy band, am I? Living it up in Bali with six-pack abs and a penchant for interpretive dance?

The image changes again.

This time, it shows a YOUNGER AGNES (45), standing in this very kitchen, arguing with a YOUNGER BARTHOLOMEW.

<center>YOUNGER AGNES (V.O.)</center>

> (Furious)

> I told you, Bartholomew, it was a mistake! You bought a llama farm? A *llama farm*? Are you mad?

The real Agnes leans closer, morbidly curious.

<center>AGNES</center>

> (Musing)

> A llama farm... Well, that would have explained the distinct smell of wet hay.

The projected image fades to static, then resolves one last time into the face of a small, grey tabby cat. The cat gives Agnes a slow, deliberate WINK, then dissolves.

The show is over. The hum softens back to a low purr.

A profound, melancholic weight settles over Agnes. She pushes the kettle off the hob, her desire for tea gone. She glances at the telephone on the wall, considers it for a moment, then dismisses the thought with a slight shake of her head.

She walks to the window, pressing a palm against the cold, frosted glass. Snow is falling thicker now, large, lazy flakes blurring the world outside. The streetlamps are flickering on, casting orange halos in the gloom.

The hum from the shelf continues, a steady, rhythmic pulse. A new, quiet absurdity in a quiet house.

Agnes turns back. She walks to the shelf and picks up the porcelain owl. It’s a familiar, cold weight in her hands. The vibration is still there, faint but constant. The amber eye offers no answers, only the promise of more baffling possibilities.

She slowly places it back on the shelf, nestled between the cookbooks and the dried basil. She stands there for a long moment, watching the snow fall.

<center>AGNES</center>

> So, what’s next? The time you accidentally dyed your hair purple for the Ladies’ Bridge Club?

She doesn’t expect an answer. She just watches the snow, and listens to the hum, and waits.

FADE OUT.