The Unfurling Acre
Joan navigates the quiet erosion of time, watching her husband, Herman, fade into the landscape of their shared past, all while the autumn outside mirrors the season of their lives.
INT. LIVING ROOM - LATE AFTERNOON
Sunlight, the color of old gold, slants through a dusty window, just brushing the edge of a worn armchair.
In the chair sits HERMAN (80s), frail, his body still. A broadsheet newspaper is tented on his lap, untouched. His gnarled, liver-spotted hands rest on its edge.
Across the room, JOAN (80s) watches him. Her face is a roadmap of their life together. The slow, shallow rise and fall of her own chest seems to mimic his.
The only sound is the low HUM of an old refrigerator from the other room and the tick-tock of a mantel clock.
Joan’s gaze drifts to the window.
EXT. YARD - (FLASHBACK - 40 YEARS AGO)
VIBRANT AUTUMN. The air is crisp. A mountain of rust and amber leaves dominates the yard.
A younger HERMAN (40s), vital and smiling, holds a rake. A young EDDIE (8) shrieks with laughter as he leaps into the massive pile, leaves exploding around him. The smell of burning sugar and damp earth hangs in the air.
Herman’s laughter joins his son’s, sharp and clear as the first frost.
BACK TO SCENE
Joan’s eyes are fixed on the bare, skeletal branches of the maple tree outside. A few last leaves cling to them like old coins.
A flicker of a smile ghosts across Herman’s lips. Is it a memory? A twitch? Joan searches his face, a familiar ache in her expression. She’s learned to let the ghosts walk alone.
The silence stretches. Joan pushes herself up from her chair, her knees CREAKING in protest.
INT. KITCHEN - MOMENTS LATER
The linoleum is cool under Joan’s worn slippers.
She fills an old kettle. It begins to SIGH on the stove, a thin wisp of steam rising like a question mark.
She takes two ceramic mugs from a cupboard. One is plain. The other has faded bluebirds and a distinct CHIP near the rim. She places it carefully on the counter.
She pours the steaming water over two tea bags. The scent of bergamot fills the small space. A small, comforting anchor.
She picks up the two mugs, one in each hand.
INT. LIVING ROOM - CONTINUOUS
Joan re-enters. Herman is exactly as she left him.
She approaches his chair, her movements careful.
JOAN
> (softly)
> Herman?
His eyelids flutter open, a slow, deliberate motion. His eyes, once sharp, are like ponds at dusk. They find her.
HERMAN
> (a dry rasp)
> Oh. Joan. Is it... morning?
JOAN
> Tea, love. Just like you like it.
She places his chipped mug on the small side table next to him, nudging it into easy reach. He looks at the mug, then at her. A flicker of recognition.
He reaches for it. His grip is uncertain, the porcelain RATTLING against the saucer.
A thin stream of amber tea runs down the side of the mug, over his knuckles. He doesn’t seem to notice.
HERMAN
> Thank you, darling. Is Eddie coming over later?
Joan pulls a neatly folded napkin from her pocket. As she speaks, she gently, tenderly, dabs the tea from his hand. A small, practiced ballet.
JOAN
> He called. He'll be by after work. He said he'd bring those apples from the orchard.
A faint, genuine smile touches Herman’s lips.
HERMAN
> Ah, good. Good. Always liked Eddie's apples. That boy... he knows his apples.
He takes a careful sip. A small, dark line of tea traces down his chin. Joan dabs it away, her fingers brushing the soft, papery skin of his cheek.
He settles back, his gaze now fixed on the window.
From the kitchen, a sharp, insistent BUZZING. A cell phone.
The sound shatters the quiet. Joan knows it’s Eddie.
She rises, turning towards the sound.
As she walks away, the last of the day’s light drains from the room. The shadows in the corners deepen, stretching, swallowing the details of the room.
ANGLE ON HERMAN. He is enveloped by the darkness, becoming a mere silhouette against the gathering twilight in the window. A faint outline against the encroaching night.
Joan stops in the doorway to the kitchen. The phone continues its summons.
CLOSE ON JOAN. She looks back at the silhouette in the chair. Her face is still. Her breath catches. The full weight of her profound, chilling loneliness lands. She is suspended between a past that is eroding and a future she cannot bear to name.
The phone BUZZES again, unanswered.
Sunlight, the color of old gold, slants through a dusty window, just brushing the edge of a worn armchair.
In the chair sits HERMAN (80s), frail, his body still. A broadsheet newspaper is tented on his lap, untouched. His gnarled, liver-spotted hands rest on its edge.
Across the room, JOAN (80s) watches him. Her face is a roadmap of their life together. The slow, shallow rise and fall of her own chest seems to mimic his.
The only sound is the low HUM of an old refrigerator from the other room and the tick-tock of a mantel clock.
Joan’s gaze drifts to the window.
EXT. YARD - (FLASHBACK - 40 YEARS AGO)
VIBRANT AUTUMN. The air is crisp. A mountain of rust and amber leaves dominates the yard.
A younger HERMAN (40s), vital and smiling, holds a rake. A young EDDIE (8) shrieks with laughter as he leaps into the massive pile, leaves exploding around him. The smell of burning sugar and damp earth hangs in the air.
Herman’s laughter joins his son’s, sharp and clear as the first frost.
BACK TO SCENE
Joan’s eyes are fixed on the bare, skeletal branches of the maple tree outside. A few last leaves cling to them like old coins.
A flicker of a smile ghosts across Herman’s lips. Is it a memory? A twitch? Joan searches his face, a familiar ache in her expression. She’s learned to let the ghosts walk alone.
The silence stretches. Joan pushes herself up from her chair, her knees CREAKING in protest.
INT. KITCHEN - MOMENTS LATER
The linoleum is cool under Joan’s worn slippers.
She fills an old kettle. It begins to SIGH on the stove, a thin wisp of steam rising like a question mark.
She takes two ceramic mugs from a cupboard. One is plain. The other has faded bluebirds and a distinct CHIP near the rim. She places it carefully on the counter.
She pours the steaming water over two tea bags. The scent of bergamot fills the small space. A small, comforting anchor.
She picks up the two mugs, one in each hand.
INT. LIVING ROOM - CONTINUOUS
Joan re-enters. Herman is exactly as she left him.
She approaches his chair, her movements careful.
JOAN
> (softly)
> Herman?
His eyelids flutter open, a slow, deliberate motion. His eyes, once sharp, are like ponds at dusk. They find her.
HERMAN
> (a dry rasp)
> Oh. Joan. Is it... morning?
JOAN
> Tea, love. Just like you like it.
She places his chipped mug on the small side table next to him, nudging it into easy reach. He looks at the mug, then at her. A flicker of recognition.
He reaches for it. His grip is uncertain, the porcelain RATTLING against the saucer.
A thin stream of amber tea runs down the side of the mug, over his knuckles. He doesn’t seem to notice.
HERMAN
> Thank you, darling. Is Eddie coming over later?
Joan pulls a neatly folded napkin from her pocket. As she speaks, she gently, tenderly, dabs the tea from his hand. A small, practiced ballet.
JOAN
> He called. He'll be by after work. He said he'd bring those apples from the orchard.
A faint, genuine smile touches Herman’s lips.
HERMAN
> Ah, good. Good. Always liked Eddie's apples. That boy... he knows his apples.
He takes a careful sip. A small, dark line of tea traces down his chin. Joan dabs it away, her fingers brushing the soft, papery skin of his cheek.
He settles back, his gaze now fixed on the window.
From the kitchen, a sharp, insistent BUZZING. A cell phone.
The sound shatters the quiet. Joan knows it’s Eddie.
She rises, turning towards the sound.
As she walks away, the last of the day’s light drains from the room. The shadows in the corners deepen, stretching, swallowing the details of the room.
ANGLE ON HERMAN. He is enveloped by the darkness, becoming a mere silhouette against the gathering twilight in the window. A faint outline against the encroaching night.
Joan stops in the doorway to the kitchen. The phone continues its summons.
CLOSE ON JOAN. She looks back at the silhouette in the chair. Her face is still. Her breath catches. The full weight of her profound, chilling loneliness lands. She is suspended between a past that is eroding and a future she cannot bear to name.
The phone BUZZES again, unanswered.