A Script for Larry's Empty Stand

[SCENE START]

**EXT. CLEARWATER NARROWS - DAWN**

A weak, watery light stretches across a sky the color of slate. The wind HUMS, rattling the last russet leaves on an ancient oak.

The settlement is a cluster of cabins made from salvaged timber and mismatched corrugated iron, huddled against the shore of a vast, cold lake. Everything smells of damp earth and burning pine.

**INT. COMMUNAL CABIN - MORNING**

The air is cold. Breath plumes in small, ghostly puffs.

PENNY (12), intelligent and observant, nudges kindling into a large wood stove with a poker. Sparks climb like frantic, tiny spirits. Her face is serious, her brow furrowed. Something is off.

Her stomach RUMBLES. She glances towards the main room.

She wears her brother's old boots, slightly too big. They SCRAPE on uneven floorboards as she walks into the main room.

The room is large, functional. A long communal table. Wool blankets on sleeping mats. A faded banner on the wall reads: 'Clearwater Narrows: Resilience & Revival'.

GEORGE (12), his hair a haystack of dried grass, is already at the table, hunched over a bowl of oatmeal. He meticulously picks out raisins with his spoon, creating a small, sad pile on the side of his bowl.

Penny ladles thick, lumpy oatmeal into her own bowl.

<center>PENNY</center>

> Morning.

George just grunts, focused on his raisin excavation.

Penny sits. She eats a spoonful. It's warm. It tastes of survival. She glances at an empty space in the corner of the hall, near the banner. A space that shouldn't be empty.

<center>PENNY</center>

> Larry’s still gone.

It’s a statement of fact. George finally looks up, pushing a final raisin to the edge of his bowl.

<center>GEORGE</center>

> The adults said… a prank.

He doesn't sound convinced. His voice is small in the quiet room.

Penny scoffs quietly. We hear a man's booming, hollow voice...

<center>OLD MAN FITZWILLIAM (V.O.)</center>

> Just a bit of mischief! He'll turn up!

A fleeting memory: OLD MAN FITZWILLIAM, his eyes darting nervously around the community hall, trying to sound confident. The memory vanishes.

<center>PENNY</center>

> Who pranks Larry?

She takes another mouthful of oatmeal. Larry is the town's mascot, a carved wooden loon, ancient and revered.

<center>GEORGE</center>

> (Shrugging)

> Maybe… someone from the other side?

<center>PENNY</center>

> They wouldn’t. They have their giant squirrel. They wouldn’t take our loon.

She says it with the certainty of a diplomat stating established treaty terms.

They finish their breakfast in silence. The only sound is the CLINK of spoons against thick ceramic bowls. A question hangs in the air, too big to answer.

**EXT. COMMUNITY HALL - LATER**

The hall stands on a slight rise, a sentry overlooking the lake. Its once-blue paint is now a sickly grey, peeling like sunburnt skin.

Penny and George approach, their feet crunching on the damp earth. They weren't told to come here. They were just drawn.

Penny shoves at the heavy wooden door. It CREAKS open with a groan older than the settlement itself. A gust of cold, dusty air rushes out.

**INT. COMMUNITY HALL - CONTINUOUS**

Colder inside than out. The cavernous space swallows sound. High, narrow windows let in slivers of light, creating long, stretching shadows. Dust motes dance in the weak beams.

Their footsteps ECHO, hollow and loud on the scuffed floor.

<center>GEORGE</center>

> (Whispering)

> It’s… extra quiet. Like something’s not just gone, but *never* was.

Penny doesn't answer. Her eyes are fixed on the center of the room.

A sturdy block of pine stands alone. The pedestal. It is bare.

She walks towards it, her steps slow, deliberate. She reaches the pedestal and runs her fingers over the top. The wood is a richer color where the loon used to stand, a faint, ghostly outline of its base preserved in the timber.

<center>PENNY</center>

> Clean.

She gets down on her hands and knees, ignoring the damp chill seeping through her trousers.

<center>GEORGE</center>

> What are you doing?

He kicks idly at a loose floorboard. THUD... THUD... THUD.

<center>PENNY</center>

> Looking.

Her nose is inches from the floor. She squints, running her fingers through the fine grey powder. She sees it. A thin streak in the dust, a faint DRAG MARK leading away from the pedestal. It heads towards a heavy side door marked 'STORAGE.'

She follows the mark. And then she stops.

Tucked right into the faint line, almost invisible. Something small. Something green.

She carefully pinches it between her thumb and forefinger. It's a pine needle. But it's wrong. Longer than a local needle. Thicker. A deep, bluish-green.

She stands, holding it up to a sliver of light.

<center>PENNY</center>

> Look.

George stops kicking the floorboard. He comes closer, squinting. He takes the needle from her, his touch cautious. He turns it over, his brow furrowed in concentration.

<center>GEORGE</center>

> That’s not… from around here. That’s not our kind of pine.

<center>PENNY</center>

> Right?

A surge of satisfaction. This is a clue. A real one.

They scan the floor, finding two more needles near the base of the locked STORAGE room door. The door is secured with a heavy, rusted padlock.

<center>GEORGE</center>

> The drag mark goes right to it. Maybe they went in there… and out the back?

Penny stares at the rusty padlock. The thief was careful. And prepared. This was not a prank.

**EXT. COMMUNITY WELL - LATER**

Penny and George emerge from the hall, squinting in the brighter, though still weak, afternoon light.

MRS. FORD (70s) sits on a weathered bench by the well. Her face is a map of lines, her spectacles perched on her nose. Her gnarled fingers move with practiced speed, knitting a lopsided scarf.

She doesn't look up as they approach.

<center>MRS. FORD</center>

> Penny. George.

Her voice is like the rustle of dry leaves.

<center>MRS. FORD</center>

> Checking on Larry, were you?

Penny’s heart jumps. She clutches the pine needle in her pocket.

<center>PENNY</center>

> Yes, Mrs. Ford.

George, ever direct, steps forward and holds out his hand. One of the pine needles rests on his palm. An offering.

<center>GEORGE</center>

> He’s still gone. And we found… a thing.

Mrs. Ford stops knitting.

She takes the needle. Her eyes, magnified by her thick spectacles, scrutinize it. A flicker of something crosses her face. Not surprise. Recognition.

She pinches the needle and brings it to her nose, inhaling slowly, her eyes closed for a moment.

When they open, they are fixed on Penny. They are very blue, the color of a deep lake on a cold day.

<center>MRS. FORD</center>

> Not from our parts, this one.

She says it quietly, a simple fact.

<center>PENNY</center>

> (Leaning forward)

> Where’s it from then?

Mrs. Ford offers a slow, gentle smile. It transforms her face.

<center>MRS. FORD</center>

> Oh, places.

Her gaze drifts over the lake, towards the hazy horizon.

<center>MRS. FORD</center>

> Many, many places, child. All pines have their homes. And sometimes… their secrets.

She hands the needle back to George. Her needles start CLICKING again, a rhythmic, steady sound. The conversation is over.

George looks at the needle, then at Penny. His expression is a mix of confusion and dawning understanding.

Penny stares at Mrs. Ford's busy hands. The quiet between them is heavier now, filled with the faint, sweet scent of a foreign pine.

The mystery of the missing loon is no longer just a hole in their hall. It's the key to a lock she never knew existed.

[SCENE END]