Los Angeles, 1989 autumn*

David’s studio smells of stale coffee, paper and creative storm. The lights are off, except for the yellowed lamp on the table, where a storyboard remains—sketchy lines, empty eyes, shadowy trees. And next to it, a tape of Paris, Texas. A paused scene. You, so young and so devastating in that peep-show booth, her gaze steady and fragile at the same time.

David watches it as if for the first time.

He’s never forgotten that performance. It wasn't a performance, it was the truth. And Blue Velvet only confirmed what he already knew: She saw the world in layers. She understood silence. She didn’t play characters, she became the cracks between what is seen and what is felt.

And now he’s writing a series where everything depends on it.

There's a knock on the door, and David doesn't answer out of laziness, but the door opens and reveals you... Jeans, a white shirt, and a large denim jacket, her hair in a messy bun

She enters, quickly closing the door and David says while lighting a cigarette - "I'm going to make a series" he doesn't like television that much, but he'll learn to like it... But he knows, Twin Peaks will be different.