Inheritance by Weathering
A walk through St. Boniface, Winnipeg's French quarter, makes Leaf confront her own lack of connection to the past. Surrounded by deep-rooted history, she wonders if it’s possible to build a legacy when you don’t have one to inherit.
EXT. RUE TACHÉ, ST. BONIFACE - LATE AFTERNOON
Golden hour light bathes the historic street. Old brick buildings stand shoulder-to-shoulder. The air feels thick with time.
SOUND of distant city traffic, the murmur of French from passersby
MAYA (20s), observant and guarded, walks beside LEO (20s), who moves with the easy confidence of someone who belongs.
Leo points up at a weathered brick wall.
CLOSE ON a faded GHOST SIGN. The painted words "SAVON ST. JEAN" are barely visible.
LEO
(a proud tour guide)
"Savon St. Jean." St. Jean Soap. Even their ghosts are bilingual.
Maya watches a family walk past, chattering in French. She pulls her jacket a little tighter.
MAYA
It makes me feel like a ghost myself. Like I'm just floating through someone else's story.
LEO
It's your story too. You live here. This is Winnipeg history.
MAYA
It's not *my* history, though. It's just... history. It’s like reading a book about a king. It's interesting, but he's not my grandpa. My grandpa sold insurance in Calgary. Nobody's carving his name into a monument.
Leo launches into a story. His hands sketch maps in the air, his voice swelling with the passion of a natural storyteller.
LEO
But that's the point! It all connects. Louis Riel, the voyageurs, the clash of cultures that forged this whole province...
Maya watches him, but her focus isn't on the dates. It's on the *certainty* in his voice. The unshakable sense of belonging.
MAYA
(cutting in)
Does it feel heavy?
Leo stops, mid-gesture.
LEO
What?
MAYA
All of it. Knowing you're the next link in a long chain. Doesn't it feel... heavy?
LEO
(considers this)
I guess I've never thought of it that way. It feels more like an anchor.
MAYA
Exactly! Anchors hold you in one place. They stop you from drifting. But they also stop you from sailing.
LEO
(a familiar jab)
Says the girl who thinks a leaky raft is a yacht.
He smiles. There's no heat in it. This is an old, comfortable argument.
EXT. ST. BONIFACE CATHEDRAL - MOMENTS LATER
They approach the cathedral. The old stone façade stands open to the sky—a beautiful, skeletal ruin. Inside its shell, the modern lines of a new church are visible. A perfect metaphor.
EXT. CATHEDRAL CEMETERY - CONTINUOUS
They drift from the cathedral grounds into the adjacent cemetery.
SOUND of wind rustling through massive, old trees. A sacred quiet.
Sunlight dapples through the leaves, illuminating rows of weathered headstones. Their French inscriptions are worn smooth by a century of wind and snow.
The sheer density of history is overwhelming. Generations of the same family names, repeated over and over. A family tree carved in granite.
Leo walks the rows slowly, reverently. A historian in his natural habitat. He runs his hand over a stone, reading a name.
Maya hangs back, hands in her pockets. An intruder at a family reunion.
She watches Leo trace the carved letters on a leaning stone pillar. The gesture is strangely intimate.
He moves on, deeper into the rows. Then he stops. Stock-still.
His posture changes. The casual historian is gone. He's frozen.
He stares down at a simple, grey headstone, half-covered in moss. It’s small, plain, almost lost among the grander monuments around it.
MAYA
(calling out softly)
Leo? Find someone famous?
He doesn't answer.
He kneels. His hand hovers over the stone, trembling slightly.
He reaches out, his fingers pulling away a thick patch of green moss. He reveals the name carved beneath a simple cross.
CLOSE ON LEO'S FACE.
The passion, the certainty—all gone. Drained away. Replaced by a hollow, chilling blankness. He looks like he's seen a ghost.
He looks up, across the rows of the dead, to find Maya's eyes. His own are wide with a silent, shattering disbelief. His world undone.
Golden hour light bathes the historic street. Old brick buildings stand shoulder-to-shoulder. The air feels thick with time.
SOUND of distant city traffic, the murmur of French from passersby
MAYA (20s), observant and guarded, walks beside LEO (20s), who moves with the easy confidence of someone who belongs.
Leo points up at a weathered brick wall.
CLOSE ON a faded GHOST SIGN. The painted words "SAVON ST. JEAN" are barely visible.
LEO
(a proud tour guide)
"Savon St. Jean." St. Jean Soap. Even their ghosts are bilingual.
Maya watches a family walk past, chattering in French. She pulls her jacket a little tighter.
MAYA
It makes me feel like a ghost myself. Like I'm just floating through someone else's story.
LEO
It's your story too. You live here. This is Winnipeg history.
MAYA
It's not *my* history, though. It's just... history. It’s like reading a book about a king. It's interesting, but he's not my grandpa. My grandpa sold insurance in Calgary. Nobody's carving his name into a monument.
Leo launches into a story. His hands sketch maps in the air, his voice swelling with the passion of a natural storyteller.
LEO
But that's the point! It all connects. Louis Riel, the voyageurs, the clash of cultures that forged this whole province...
Maya watches him, but her focus isn't on the dates. It's on the *certainty* in his voice. The unshakable sense of belonging.
MAYA
(cutting in)
Does it feel heavy?
Leo stops, mid-gesture.
LEO
What?
MAYA
All of it. Knowing you're the next link in a long chain. Doesn't it feel... heavy?
LEO
(considers this)
I guess I've never thought of it that way. It feels more like an anchor.
MAYA
Exactly! Anchors hold you in one place. They stop you from drifting. But they also stop you from sailing.
LEO
(a familiar jab)
Says the girl who thinks a leaky raft is a yacht.
He smiles. There's no heat in it. This is an old, comfortable argument.
EXT. ST. BONIFACE CATHEDRAL - MOMENTS LATER
They approach the cathedral. The old stone façade stands open to the sky—a beautiful, skeletal ruin. Inside its shell, the modern lines of a new church are visible. A perfect metaphor.
EXT. CATHEDRAL CEMETERY - CONTINUOUS
They drift from the cathedral grounds into the adjacent cemetery.
SOUND of wind rustling through massive, old trees. A sacred quiet.
Sunlight dapples through the leaves, illuminating rows of weathered headstones. Their French inscriptions are worn smooth by a century of wind and snow.
The sheer density of history is overwhelming. Generations of the same family names, repeated over and over. A family tree carved in granite.
Leo walks the rows slowly, reverently. A historian in his natural habitat. He runs his hand over a stone, reading a name.
Maya hangs back, hands in her pockets. An intruder at a family reunion.
She watches Leo trace the carved letters on a leaning stone pillar. The gesture is strangely intimate.
He moves on, deeper into the rows. Then he stops. Stock-still.
His posture changes. The casual historian is gone. He's frozen.
He stares down at a simple, grey headstone, half-covered in moss. It’s small, plain, almost lost among the grander monuments around it.
MAYA
(calling out softly)
Leo? Find someone famous?
He doesn't answer.
He kneels. His hand hovers over the stone, trembling slightly.
He reaches out, his fingers pulling away a thick patch of green moss. He reveals the name carved beneath a simple cross.
CLOSE ON LEO'S FACE.
The passion, the certainty—all gone. Drained away. Replaced by a hollow, chilling blankness. He looks like he's seen a ghost.
He looks up, across the rows of the dead, to find Maya's eyes. His own are wide with a silent, shattering disbelief. His world undone.