Where the Condensation Gathers
A retired cartographer discovers that the daily condensation on her coffee shop window is forming a map of a mythical, non-existent island. When a sailor recognizes a landmark, a skeptical historian is challenged to question the nature of reality.
INT. THE DAILY GRIND - MORNING
SOUND of steady RAIN against a large picture window, the hiss of an espresso machine
A warm, woody café, a haven from the grey, rain-slicked Halifax street outside.
LINDA (40s), quiet and observant, stands before the front window. A vast, intricate map of a coastline is traced in the condensation. Fjords, archipelagos, a great river delta. Ethereal and detailed.
She traces the outline of a bay with her finger, her touch hovering just above the glass. A private, daily ritual.
The jingle of a small BELL over the door.
A gust of salty air blows in TERRY (70s), a retired merchant marine whose face is a roadmap of laugh lines. He stomps his boots on the mat, moving with the gentle roll of a man more accustomed to a ship's deck.
TERRY
> Morning, Linda. The sea’s in a foul mood today.
He makes his way to the counter.
TERRY (CONT'D)
> The usual brew, if you please.
Linda nods, turning to the machine. As she works, Terry’s eyes drift to the window. A soft smile.
TERRY (CONT'D)
> Ah. She’s clear today.
Linda brings a heavy, steaming mug to the counter.
LINDA
> New mountains. Appeared this morning.
She gestures with her chin towards the window.
Terry takes the mug and walks over to the glass, peering at the moisture-drawn peaks. He squints, leaning so close his breath fogs a fresh patch.
TERRY
> (a low whistle)
> Well, I’ll be damned.
LINDA
> What is it?
TERRY
> That one.
> (points with a thick finger)
> The one that looks like a broken tooth. My grandfather used to sing a shanty about that. About Hy-Brasil. The phantom island. Said there was a mountain on its shore that looked like a tooth the gods had cracked on a hard bit of cosmic tack.
His eyes twinkle.
TERRY (CONT'D)
> Said it was the only way to find the hidden harbour.
The BELL jingles again. A dry voice cuts in.
JOHN (O.S.)
> Hy-Brasil is a myth, Terry.
JOHN (70s), a history professor emeritus, stands by the door, meticulously shaking out a black umbrella. He radiates academic certainty.
JOHN (CONT'D)
> A cartographic error from the 14th century. A refraction of light, a smudge on a lens, a drunken monk’s fantasy.
He approaches the counter, then glances at the window.
JOHN (CONT'D)
> It’s a lovely bit of condensation, Linda. Remarkably detailed, I’ll grant you. But it’s just water vapour. Seeing maps in it is no different from seeing a fluffy bunny in the clouds.
LINDA
> But the consistency, John. Every morning, it’s the same coastline. It changes, it evolves, but the core features are always there.
JOHN
> The window frame creates thermal variations. Air currents, the heat from the radiator below. It’s a closed system with predictable variables. You’re getting a recurring fractal pattern, not a map of Atlantis.
Terry scoffs into his mug.
TERRY
> Predictable variables don’t account for a landmark from a song that hasn’t been sung in a hundred years. You historians, you spend so much time looking at old maps you forget the sea that made them.
JOHN
> And you sailors spend so much time looking at the sea you start seeing mermaids in every wave.
Linda watches their familiar sport, but John’s dismissal stings today. She makes a decision. She reaches under the counter and pulls out a large, worn SKETCHBOOK. She places it on an empty table with a soft thud.
LINDA
> It’s not just one map, John.
Her voice is quiet but firm. She opens the book.
Page after page is filled with meticulous, dated sketches of the window map. Each drawing is precise, capturing the phantom coastline in charcoal.
LINDA (CONT'D)
> I’ve been documenting it. The coastline doesn’t just evolve. It’s moving.
She flips through the pages. The coastline on the paper shifts, rotates, revealing new features behind it, a vast interior, other continents on a far horizon.
LINDA (CONT'D)
> Each day shows a slightly different perspective. As if... as if the viewpoint is rotating.
John falls silent. He slowly walks around the table, his academic skepticism at war with the evidence before him. He looks from the sketchbook to the window, then back again.
JOHN
> (whispering)
> It’s impossible.
TERRY
> (a triumphant grin)
> Or proof that all your dusty old books didn’t get the whole story.
John shakes his head, regaining his composure. He pulls a sleek TABLET from his leather satchel.
JOHN
> No. There’s a logical explanation. There has to be.
He taps furiously at the screen.
JOHN (CONT'D)
> Here. Live satellite feed. The North Atlantic. Exactly where the old myths place Hy-Brasil.
He turns the tablet to face them. It shows a vast, empty expanse of blue ocean, white clouds swirling over it.
JOHN (CONT'D)
> See? Nothing. Just water. Miles and miles of cold, empty water.
Linda looks from the tablet to her window. She walks to the glass and puts her finger on a specific point of the condensation map—a small island just off the coast of the larger landmass.
LINDA
> There. The satellite is looking right there.
John scoffs, about to speak—
Terry, looking over John’s shoulder at the tablet, lets out a sharp GASP.
TERRY
> John... look closer.
CLOSE ON THE TABLET SCREEN. In the swirling clouds over the empty blue, a single PIXEL flickers. A tiny, infinitesimal anomaly. Something that shouldn't be there.
CLOSE ON JOHN'S FACE. His smug certainty drains away, replaced by the first tremor of profound, world-shattering doubt.
SOUND of steady RAIN against a large picture window, the hiss of an espresso machine
A warm, woody café, a haven from the grey, rain-slicked Halifax street outside.
LINDA (40s), quiet and observant, stands before the front window. A vast, intricate map of a coastline is traced in the condensation. Fjords, archipelagos, a great river delta. Ethereal and detailed.
She traces the outline of a bay with her finger, her touch hovering just above the glass. A private, daily ritual.
The jingle of a small BELL over the door.
A gust of salty air blows in TERRY (70s), a retired merchant marine whose face is a roadmap of laugh lines. He stomps his boots on the mat, moving with the gentle roll of a man more accustomed to a ship's deck.
TERRY
> Morning, Linda. The sea’s in a foul mood today.
He makes his way to the counter.
TERRY (CONT'D)
> The usual brew, if you please.
Linda nods, turning to the machine. As she works, Terry’s eyes drift to the window. A soft smile.
TERRY (CONT'D)
> Ah. She’s clear today.
Linda brings a heavy, steaming mug to the counter.
LINDA
> New mountains. Appeared this morning.
She gestures with her chin towards the window.
Terry takes the mug and walks over to the glass, peering at the moisture-drawn peaks. He squints, leaning so close his breath fogs a fresh patch.
TERRY
> (a low whistle)
> Well, I’ll be damned.
LINDA
> What is it?
TERRY
> That one.
> (points with a thick finger)
> The one that looks like a broken tooth. My grandfather used to sing a shanty about that. About Hy-Brasil. The phantom island. Said there was a mountain on its shore that looked like a tooth the gods had cracked on a hard bit of cosmic tack.
His eyes twinkle.
TERRY (CONT'D)
> Said it was the only way to find the hidden harbour.
The BELL jingles again. A dry voice cuts in.
JOHN (O.S.)
> Hy-Brasil is a myth, Terry.
JOHN (70s), a history professor emeritus, stands by the door, meticulously shaking out a black umbrella. He radiates academic certainty.
JOHN (CONT'D)
> A cartographic error from the 14th century. A refraction of light, a smudge on a lens, a drunken monk’s fantasy.
He approaches the counter, then glances at the window.
JOHN (CONT'D)
> It’s a lovely bit of condensation, Linda. Remarkably detailed, I’ll grant you. But it’s just water vapour. Seeing maps in it is no different from seeing a fluffy bunny in the clouds.
LINDA
> But the consistency, John. Every morning, it’s the same coastline. It changes, it evolves, but the core features are always there.
JOHN
> The window frame creates thermal variations. Air currents, the heat from the radiator below. It’s a closed system with predictable variables. You’re getting a recurring fractal pattern, not a map of Atlantis.
Terry scoffs into his mug.
TERRY
> Predictable variables don’t account for a landmark from a song that hasn’t been sung in a hundred years. You historians, you spend so much time looking at old maps you forget the sea that made them.
JOHN
> And you sailors spend so much time looking at the sea you start seeing mermaids in every wave.
Linda watches their familiar sport, but John’s dismissal stings today. She makes a decision. She reaches under the counter and pulls out a large, worn SKETCHBOOK. She places it on an empty table with a soft thud.
LINDA
> It’s not just one map, John.
Her voice is quiet but firm. She opens the book.
Page after page is filled with meticulous, dated sketches of the window map. Each drawing is precise, capturing the phantom coastline in charcoal.
LINDA (CONT'D)
> I’ve been documenting it. The coastline doesn’t just evolve. It’s moving.
She flips through the pages. The coastline on the paper shifts, rotates, revealing new features behind it, a vast interior, other continents on a far horizon.
LINDA (CONT'D)
> Each day shows a slightly different perspective. As if... as if the viewpoint is rotating.
John falls silent. He slowly walks around the table, his academic skepticism at war with the evidence before him. He looks from the sketchbook to the window, then back again.
JOHN
> (whispering)
> It’s impossible.
TERRY
> (a triumphant grin)
> Or proof that all your dusty old books didn’t get the whole story.
John shakes his head, regaining his composure. He pulls a sleek TABLET from his leather satchel.
JOHN
> No. There’s a logical explanation. There has to be.
He taps furiously at the screen.
JOHN (CONT'D)
> Here. Live satellite feed. The North Atlantic. Exactly where the old myths place Hy-Brasil.
He turns the tablet to face them. It shows a vast, empty expanse of blue ocean, white clouds swirling over it.
JOHN (CONT'D)
> See? Nothing. Just water. Miles and miles of cold, empty water.
Linda looks from the tablet to her window. She walks to the glass and puts her finger on a specific point of the condensation map—a small island just off the coast of the larger landmass.
LINDA
> There. The satellite is looking right there.
John scoffs, about to speak—
Terry, looking over John’s shoulder at the tablet, lets out a sharp GASP.
TERRY
> John... look closer.
CLOSE ON THE TABLET SCREEN. In the swirling clouds over the empty blue, a single PIXEL flickers. A tiny, infinitesimal anomaly. Something that shouldn't be there.
CLOSE ON JOHN'S FACE. His smug certainty drains away, replaced by the first tremor of profound, world-shattering doubt.