The Geometry of Leaving
In Winnipeg's West End, surrounded by a different kind of history, Leo grapples with the idea of home. A powerful mural of migrating geese forces a conversation with Leaf about whether they're meant to stay or fly.
EXT. SARGENT AVENUE - DAY
A prairie afternoon sun, warm and low. The light catches the texture of old brick buildings. This part of the city is worn, not curated.
NARRATOR (20s), introspective, and LEAF (20s), observant, walk along the sidewalk.
SOUND: Distant city traffic, the scuff of their shoes on concrete.
CLOSE ON a "ghost sign" on a brick wall. Flaking paint reveals layers of history—faded Cyrillic letters under English words for a bakery.
NARRATOR (V.O.)
This part of the city doesn’t have the curated history of the Exchange. This is where the past hasn't been sandblasted and repurposed for loft apartments. The ghost signs are for families whose names I can’t pronounce, for delis that sold pickles out of a barrel...
ANGLE ON another sign. Portuguese. Painted over an even older, illegible one. A timeline in peeling paint.
NARRATOR (V.O.)
...for little cinemas with sticky floors. It feels more honest, somehow. Less like a museum piece and more like a well-read book with a broken spine.
Leaf stops, tilts her head, really *looking* at the walls.
LEAF
It's different here. The ghosts are louder.
The Narrator watches her, then looks back at the signs.
NARRATOR (V.O.)
She's right. You can feel the layers. I wonder what it’s like to move across the world and build something here... to paint your name on a brick wall. And I wonder what it’s like for your kids, or their kids, to decide to leave it all behind.
He shoves his hands in his pockets.
NARRATOR (V.O.)
My entire life has been lived within a thirty-kilometre radius of this spot. My past isn't a ghost sign; it’s the house I grew up in, the school I went to... It's all still here. Tangible. And I can't decide if that’s a comfort or a cage.
EXT. RESIDENTIAL STREET - DAY
They turn a corner onto a quiet street. Small, neat houses with vegetable gardens in the front yards. A sense of deep-rooted domesticity.
NARRATOR
Could you do it?
LEAF
Do what? Start a perogy empire?
NARRATOR
No. Stay. Could you just… pick a place and stay there? For good?
Leaf doesn't answer immediately. She kicks at a loose piece of gravel on the sidewalk, watching it skitter away.
LEAF
I don't know. I've never thought of my life in terms of 'for good'. I think of it in chapters. Maybe Winnipeg is a chapter. Maybe it’s a whole volume. But I can't imagine reading the same chapter over and over until the end of the book, you know?
NARRATOR
But what if it's a really good chapter?
The question hangs there, defensive. Leaf looks at him, her expression gentle.
LEAF
Then you re-read it sometimes. You dog-ear the page. But you still have to see how the story ends. Don't you feel that? The pull of the next page?
The Narrator looks away, down the long, quiet street.
NARRATOR (V.O.)
I feel the pull of a steady paycheque. Of a life that doesn't involve a constant, low-grade panic about the future. But I do feel what she’s talking about. A low hum of discontent... Stay here, where it’s known. Or go, anywhere, and start with a blank wall.
EXT. COMMUNITY CENTRE - DAY
At the end of the street, they stop.
Before them, the entire brick side-wall of a low community centre has been turned into a canvas.
THE MURAL
Massive. Simple. Powerful. A flock of CANADA GEESE flies in a perfect V-formation against a deep, cloudless blue sky. Their wings are spread, captured mid-beat. They are flying out of the frame, heading somewhere beyond the edge of the wall.
The Narrator and Leaf just stand there, taking it in. The sense of movement, of purpose, is palpable.
SOUND: A gentle prairie wind rustles leaves in a nearby tree.
NARRATOR
They always come back. They fly south, but they always come back here. This is home.
Leaf doesn't look at him. Her eyes are fixed on the lead goose, a painted bird beating against a painted sky.
LEAF
But they have to leave to know that. They wouldn't appreciate the summer if they didn't have to fight through the winter.
She turns her head slowly to look at him. Her expression is uncharacteristically serious.
LEAF
Maybe home isn't a place you stay in. Maybe it's just the place you always return to.
She turns back to the mural, raising a single finger, pointing at the lead goose pushing against the blue.
CLOSE ON THE NARRATOR'S FACE.
He stares at the mural, Leaf's words echoing. His entire worldview subtly shifts on its axis. The geometry of leaving. The question hangs, unresolved.
FADE TO BLACK.
A prairie afternoon sun, warm and low. The light catches the texture of old brick buildings. This part of the city is worn, not curated.
NARRATOR (20s), introspective, and LEAF (20s), observant, walk along the sidewalk.
SOUND: Distant city traffic, the scuff of their shoes on concrete.
CLOSE ON a "ghost sign" on a brick wall. Flaking paint reveals layers of history—faded Cyrillic letters under English words for a bakery.
NARRATOR (V.O.)
This part of the city doesn’t have the curated history of the Exchange. This is where the past hasn't been sandblasted and repurposed for loft apartments. The ghost signs are for families whose names I can’t pronounce, for delis that sold pickles out of a barrel...
ANGLE ON another sign. Portuguese. Painted over an even older, illegible one. A timeline in peeling paint.
NARRATOR (V.O.)
...for little cinemas with sticky floors. It feels more honest, somehow. Less like a museum piece and more like a well-read book with a broken spine.
Leaf stops, tilts her head, really *looking* at the walls.
LEAF
It's different here. The ghosts are louder.
The Narrator watches her, then looks back at the signs.
NARRATOR (V.O.)
She's right. You can feel the layers. I wonder what it’s like to move across the world and build something here... to paint your name on a brick wall. And I wonder what it’s like for your kids, or their kids, to decide to leave it all behind.
He shoves his hands in his pockets.
NARRATOR (V.O.)
My entire life has been lived within a thirty-kilometre radius of this spot. My past isn't a ghost sign; it’s the house I grew up in, the school I went to... It's all still here. Tangible. And I can't decide if that’s a comfort or a cage.
EXT. RESIDENTIAL STREET - DAY
They turn a corner onto a quiet street. Small, neat houses with vegetable gardens in the front yards. A sense of deep-rooted domesticity.
NARRATOR
Could you do it?
LEAF
Do what? Start a perogy empire?
NARRATOR
No. Stay. Could you just… pick a place and stay there? For good?
Leaf doesn't answer immediately. She kicks at a loose piece of gravel on the sidewalk, watching it skitter away.
LEAF
I don't know. I've never thought of my life in terms of 'for good'. I think of it in chapters. Maybe Winnipeg is a chapter. Maybe it’s a whole volume. But I can't imagine reading the same chapter over and over until the end of the book, you know?
NARRATOR
But what if it's a really good chapter?
The question hangs there, defensive. Leaf looks at him, her expression gentle.
LEAF
Then you re-read it sometimes. You dog-ear the page. But you still have to see how the story ends. Don't you feel that? The pull of the next page?
The Narrator looks away, down the long, quiet street.
NARRATOR (V.O.)
I feel the pull of a steady paycheque. Of a life that doesn't involve a constant, low-grade panic about the future. But I do feel what she’s talking about. A low hum of discontent... Stay here, where it’s known. Or go, anywhere, and start with a blank wall.
EXT. COMMUNITY CENTRE - DAY
At the end of the street, they stop.
Before them, the entire brick side-wall of a low community centre has been turned into a canvas.
THE MURAL
Massive. Simple. Powerful. A flock of CANADA GEESE flies in a perfect V-formation against a deep, cloudless blue sky. Their wings are spread, captured mid-beat. They are flying out of the frame, heading somewhere beyond the edge of the wall.
The Narrator and Leaf just stand there, taking it in. The sense of movement, of purpose, is palpable.
SOUND: A gentle prairie wind rustles leaves in a nearby tree.
NARRATOR
They always come back. They fly south, but they always come back here. This is home.
Leaf doesn't look at him. Her eyes are fixed on the lead goose, a painted bird beating against a painted sky.
LEAF
But they have to leave to know that. They wouldn't appreciate the summer if they didn't have to fight through the winter.
She turns her head slowly to look at him. Her expression is uncharacteristically serious.
LEAF
Maybe home isn't a place you stay in. Maybe it's just the place you always return to.
She turns back to the mural, raising a single finger, pointing at the lead goose pushing against the blue.
CLOSE ON THE NARRATOR'S FACE.
He stares at the mural, Leaf's words echoing. His entire worldview subtly shifts on its axis. The geometry of leaving. The question hangs, unresolved.
FADE TO BLACK.