FADE IN: INT. MAYA'S THERAPY OFFICE, CAPITOL HILL, SEATTLE, 10:00 AM The room is designed around the absence of distraction. Neutral walls. Two chairs angled toward each other at precisely the degree that feels casual rather than confrontational. A low table between them with nothing on it. One window to the left, gauze curtain diffusing the October light into something warm and without edges. A bookshelf behind one chair. A notepad on the other. DR. MAYA CROSS (38) sits in the chair with the notepad. She is composed in the way that a landscape is composed: nothing accidental. Dark hair pulled back from her face. Professional attire in the specific register of a person who wants her clothing to make no impression. Her eyes are the room's most precise instrument. Across from her, PATIENT A (52) is speaking. Maya is listening the way you listen when you do this for a living. Not just to the words. To the structure the words make. To the gaps. Her pen moves at intervals. The notepad is on her