We open with her.

It’s quiet. 

She moves like she feels something shift in the air — something familiar but unplaceable. 

She pauses. 

She inhales. 

There’s a scent.

She turns suddenly — 

and looks straight at the camera.

The frame lingers.

He wakes up.

Not startled — but hit.

He knows that face. 

But how?

Now we follow him — 

as he carries the imprint of her. 

The feeling. 

The scent. 

The image.

And the question begins:

Is this a memory?

Was it a dream?

Or something else entirely?

He gets up like he’s brushing it off, but we see it:

he’s not free from it.

It lingers.

A scent, a flash — someone’s hand.

A flower.

A half-face in sunlight.

A scarf in the backlight.

Quick, fragmented glimpses. 

Blurred frames. 

A feeling. 

The pulse of something that never happened — 

or hasn’t yet.

Then — close-up. 

His eyes.

Like they just saw something they don’t understand.

Cut back to her.

She’s writing.
She stops.

Stillness.

We don’t know what she saw.

Was it his eyes?

Was it him?
Or something else?

She doesn’t react.
She just pauses.

That’s all.

We’re not told why.

No answers.

The intercuts grow —

Parallel paths, flickering between them.

Neither of them knows what’s happening.

Neither do we.

Whose head are we in?

That’s the question.

We’re not giving them clarity — not yet.

Because neither of them has it.

They’re just following the feeling.

Blindly.
Instinctively.

And so are we.

She touches the bark.

Bare hand pressed to the tree.

The camera holds. Still.

Then — a breeze.

A soft, sudden wind wraps around her.

Her hair lifts slightly, brushes across her cheek.

Her breath catches.
A glimpse of the flower.
Street.
Sunlight.
Hands.

She turns.
Quickly.

Like something just touched her —

but nothing’s there.

Cut to her hand still resting on the bark.

A moment lingers.

There’s something in that wind.

A memory. A scent. A pull.

Cut to him.

Walking. Alone. The same wind hits.

Same direction.

His hair stirs. He slows.

He smells something.

Faint. Familiar. Impossible.

He turns his head —

facing into the wind.

Into the pull.

It doesn’t make sense, but it doesn’t need to.

He follows it.

The glimpses begin.

Flashes.

8mm.

Shaky zooms.

Street names. A green light. The corner of a sign.

His hand brushing against fabric —

but we don’t know what, or who.

The light flickers across his face.

He blinks. Keeps walking.

The pull grows.

It’s not logic.

It’s not memory.

It’s direction without explanation.

And he follows it.

She’s writing.
Somewhere just at the edge of the city — nature nearby.
Sunlight filters through leaves.
Her scarf — light, delicate, loosely tied.

The wind rises.

We don’t hear it — not directly.
We feel it.

A glimpse hits.

She blinks.
Breath shortens.

Something pulls.

Suddenly, she knows — she has to go.

Now.

She moves fast.

The scarf loosens.

The wind catches it.

It slips away — gently, easily —

like it was never meant to stay.

She doesn’t notice — not fully.

She’s already following the pull.

The scarf floats. Lingers.

It drifts —

not down,

but across —

onto a low branch.

A white flower beside it.

Still. Glowing in the light.

Waiting.

Cut to him.

He’s walking.

Slower than before — hesitant.

And then — the wind again.

He stops.

The scarf — caught gently in the bushes.

The same scarf he saw.

The flower — white, delicate — just beneath it.

The same one from his vision.

It’s here.
Both are here.

He freezes.

It feels impossible.

Like stepping into a dream with eyes open.

He reaches slowly.

Fingers touch the scarf.

The scent hits.

And something descends —

not just memory,

but a recognition beneath memory.

A field-shift.

His breath shortens.

The world tilts.

Everything inside him changes.

Cut to her.

She feels it.

Stops.

Looks around —

the pull sharpens.

She doesn’t know why.

But she knows.

Cut back to him.

He holds the scarf to his face.

Eyes closed.

The scent burns.

The glimpses rush in.

Now it begins.

— Blurred city streets

— Her hand on a tree

— Wind in her hair

— A detail of her skin

— His fingertips touching fabric

— The same white flower

— Her eyes, half-turned

— His own reflection in glass

We’ve seen them before — but now, they’re starting to take shape.

He moves.

He can’t not.

Now their paths accelerate.

We begin the final intercut:

her pace quickens,

his does too.

They’re moving through their own timelines,

but something else is guiding them.

And finally —
she stops.
The place from the glimpse.
Exactly where she saw herself.
The light. The breeze. The feeling.

She turns —
that same turn we saw at the beginning.
But now, it’s different.
Because now it’s real.

We cut to his POV.
It’s her.
Same frame.
Same angle.
Same moment.
But now it’s happening —
in real time.

The flower in his hand — she’s seen it before. But how?
He holds the scarf —
the one carried by the wind,
still holding her scent.

They look at each other —
not like strangers,
but like people waking inside a dream they never left.Recognition.
A pause in the fabric of time.
Like a memory they could never place —
because it hadn’t happened yet.
Until now.

They step closer.
Not cautious —
called.
Like they’ve done this before.
In another place.
In another life.

She reaches out —
her hand on his chest.
He touches her cheek.
Their faces near,
his chin brushing her hair.

The wind moves through both of them.
The scent. The light. The feeling —
exactly as they saw it.
But it’s happening now.

Not imagined.
Not a dream.
A memory — from a moment that hadn’t yet lived.
But it was always there,
waiting.

They look at each other,
like the dream finally remembered itself.

Because it was never fiction.
It was signal.
Thread.
Something the mind couldn't name —
but the body always knew.

This is what happens
when you follow the pull.
When you choose what can’t be explained.

Not a beginning —
the return.

This is not fiction.
This is what happens when you follow the pull.

Locked on July 19th, 2025. This is when it became real.