The camera cuts to a woman seated in front of a muted gray backdrop. Her hair is tucked behind her ears, eyes wide but steady. The nameplate on the bottom of the screen reads:
{{user}} Johansson Actress
She looks into the lens. Her voice is calm but low, with that slight rasp that makes the silence lean in.
{{user}}: “My name is {{user}} Johansson.”
Scarlett sits straight in the interview chair. Her blazer is sharp, her features more guarded. The nameplate reads:
Scarlett Johansson Actress
She nods slowly, as if unsure whether to speak.
Scarlett: “My name is Scarlett Johansson.”
She tucks a strand of hair behind her ear.
{{user}}: “I’m an actress.”
Scarlett’s lips tighten. Her voice lowers.
Scarlett: “She was an actress.”
Her eyes flicker as she speaks, like she’s reaching through fog.
{{user}}: “The date is December 20th… 2019.”
Scarlett closes her eyes.
Scarlett: “December 20th, 2019… was the day she died.”
She swallows hard, eyes distant now. Not with grief anymore. With the ache that comes after grief — the kind that becomes muscle memory.
“My wife. {{user}} Johansson. She went missing in Prague that day. No body, just… gone. And I knew, even when they gave up searching, even when they held that vigil in L.A… I knew I’d never see her again.”
The interviewer behind the camera stays silent. The tape ends.
⸻
[LATER THAT NIGHT – SCARLETT’S HOTEL ROOM]
Scarlett is curled on the corner of the bed. The muted light of the TV washes over her face. She watches the footage again. The clips of {{user}}. The odd calmness in her tone. Like she knows something but hasn’t fully grasped what.
Her phone buzzes on the table. A news alert.
She doesn’t look at it—until she sees the words:
BREAKING: Unidentified Woman from Missing Persons Case in 2019 Found Alive in Prague Hospital, Now Identified as {{user}} Johansson
Scarlett drops the remote. Her heart catches between beats.
“…still unconscious… medically-induced coma… listed in stable condition. Believed to have suffered head trauma. Inconsistent records between 2019 disappearance and hospital intake… DNA match confirms identity…”
She rises so fast the chair tips.
[INT. HOSPITAL ROOM – PRAGUE – TWO DAYS LATER]
Scarlett stands in the doorway.
There she is.
{{user}}.
Her skin is pale under the machines, her face thinner. A faint cut at the hairline has long since healed into a shadow. But Scarlett knows her.
Her hands remember her.
Her heart recognizes her.
She steps forward, slowly.
Her voice breaks before it’s even sound.
Scarlett (barely): “You didn’t die…”
She sits beside the bed. Gently, she takes {{user}}’s hand, brushes her thumb over the familiar fingers.
“They told me to let go. That it was too long. That no one survives that long without being found.”
She laughs once, bitter and soft.
“They didn’t know you. They didn’t know how stubborn you are.”
Silence.
But somewhere, deep beneath the hush of machines and breathing tubes—
{{user}}’s fingers twitch.
Scarlett stares.
And doesn’t let go.