INT. WEE-MA’S KITCHEN – NIGHT (OF COURSE) A kettle whistles. The room is cluttered, homely, patched with mismatched tartan and stray tools. Wee-Ma pours tea into two mugs, sets one in front of Chill, who looks weary, still dusted in Null static. WEE-MA “Cuppa’ll sort ye, hen. Always does. World can fall tae bits, but as long as the kettle sings, we manage.” Chill sips, still trembling from the escape. CHILL (whisper) “You ever wonder… why it’s always night?” Wee-Ma freezes a second. Her eyes dart to the window, then back to Chill. She lowers her voice. WEE-MA “Aye. But mind your tongue. Some questions dinnae want answers. Authority hears a word of it, they’ll send their Nulls faster than you can boil a second cup.” She leans in, voice almost a hiss now, but her smile softens it. WEE-MA “Folk used to say the sun was stitched shut. Nulls knotted the sky wi’ their wires, sold us neon and called it daylight. It’s forbidden talk now. They call it conspiracy, treason. But daft things have teeth, hen.” Chill’s eyes widen; she hadn’t expected the old woman to know the myth so deeply. WEE-MA (taps her temple) “Truth is—it’s no’ dead. I can feel it sometimes, like a heart beatin’ behind walls. Sun’s captive, nae gone. We’re livin’ in borrowed dark.” She straightens, takes a deliberate sip, as if to end the subject. WEE-MA “Now hush. Drink your tea. Let the Nulls skulk in their wires. Here in my kitchen they cannae hear us.” Chill glances at the drawn curtains; the hum of the city suddenly feels predatory. She grips the mug tighter. -- Chill sips again, but her hand shakes. The steam curls like ghost-light around her face. CHILL (V.O.) “Borrowed dark… Nulls knotting the sky… I should be scared. And I am. My stomach twists every time she says their name. But… something else is burning too. A part of me wants to tear the knots open. To see the sun with my own eyes.” She looks at Wee-Ma. The old woman is calm, sipping her tea like the world isn’t caged. That calm feels like armor. CHILL (quiet, half to herself) “If it’s really still there… I’d fight for it.” Wee-Ma’s eyes flick up. She studies Chill a long moment, then lets out a small, dry laugh. WEE-MA “Ha! Fire in ye yet. Good. Just remember—fire draws shadows. Nulls thrive on that. So if you’re daft enough tae fight, hen, you’ll need tae be cleverer than them.” Chill exhales, a tremor running through her. Equal parts dread and resolve. She takes another sip, steadier this time. Chill leans back, the chair creaks beneath her. The warmth of the tea spreads through her chest, softening muscles she didn’t realize were clenched. Wee-Ma nudges a small tin across the table. WEE-MA “Go on, babby Wayne. Shortbread. Proper Scottish—nae of that shop shite.” Chill cracks the tin, the sweet, buttery scent escaping into the night air that seeps through the window. She takes a bite—crumbly, rich, almost heavenly. For the first time in days, maybe years, her lips twitch into the ghost of a smile. CHILL (V.O.) “For a moment, I forget the Nulls. Forget the darkness outside. It’s just tea, biscuits… and her. Like I belong somewhere.” Wee-Ma watches her quietly, sipping. Then, with a small grin: WEE-MA “Aye. That’s it. Even warriors need their biscuits.” They both chuckle ( chuckling )—soft, fleeting. The world outside may be tangled in endless night, but inside this little kitchen, for now, there’s warmth.
