$WICK

Screenplay draft

Title: $WICK
Credit: Written by
Author: [Your Name]
Draft date: [Today's Date]
Contact: [Your Contact Info]

FADE IN:

EXT. ST. ERTH LIGHTHOUSE - NIGHT

A jagged cliff on the Cornish coast, lashed by a bitter wind. The ST. ERTH LIGHTHOUSE, a weathered stone tower, clings to the edge, its iron lattice groaning under the strain of the gale. The beacon’s beam sweeps over a roiling black sea, weak and stuttering, barely piercing the fog. Waves crash against the rocks below, spraying icy froth into the air.

INT. LIGHTHOUSE BUNKROOM - NIGHT

A cramped, damp space, lit by a single oil lamp. Rusted metal walls drip with condensation. A narrow cot, tangled with gray blankets, sits beneath a cracked porthole. MIRA TREWIN, 42, wiry and weathered, hunches over a small table, her hands stained with wax as she rolls a wick between calloused fingers. Her face is gaunt, eyes shadowed from too many sleepless nights. She wears a patched wool sweater, the sleeves frayed at the cuffs. A shortwave radio crackles faintly in the corner, spitting static.

MIRA
(under her breath)
Keep burning. Just keep burning.

She glances at a faded photograph pinned to the wall—a young girl, maybe ten, with Mira’s sharp cheekbones, smiling on a Penzance pier. Mira’s jaw tightens, and she turns away, focusing on the wick. The wind howls louder outside, rattling the porthole. A faint scrape echoes from under the door. Mira freezes, listening. She sets the wick down, wipes her hands on her sweater, and crosses to the door. Her boots scuff against the uneven floor. She bends down, peering at the gap.

A yellowed envelope sits there, half-shoved into the room. Mira’s brow furrows. She picks it up, turning it over. The handwriting on the front—her own, jagged and familiar—reads “Mira Trewin, St. Erth, 2013.” Her breath catches. The date is ten years ago. She tears it open, unfolding a single sheet of paper. Her eyes scan the first line, and her hand trembles.

MIRA
(whispering)
A storm beyond reckoning… three days…

She looks up, staring at the door, then back at the letter. The lamp flickers, casting long shadows across her face. Outside, the wind screams like a living thing, and the lighthouse groans as if it might crack in two.

INT. LIGHTHOUSE BUNKROOM - LATER

Mira sits on the cot, the letter crumpled in her lap. The oil lamp burns low, amber light barely holding back the dark. She stares at the photograph of Lila, her fingers tracing the edge of the frame.

MIRA
(muttering)
Some lights can’t guide you back.

Her voice cracks, heavy with unspoken loss. The radio static spikes, a garbled voice cutting through.

RADIO OPERATOR HAL
(through static)
St. Erth, this is Hal. Weather’s turnin’ ugly. You copy?

Mira doesn’t move, her eyes locked on the letter. The static swallows Hal’s voice as the wind outside roars louder.

INT. LIGHTHOUSE BUNKROOM - DAY

Gray light filters through the porthole. Mira moves mechanically, pouring wax into a mold at the table. Her hands are steady, but her eyes are distant. The barometer on the wall shows pressure dropping fast. She glances at it, then at the photograph, her expression hardening. She turns back to her work, ignoring the faint creak of the tower under strain.

EXT. ST. ERTH LIGHTHOUSE - DAY

The sea churns below, a bruised purple under slate-gray clouds. Mira emerges onto the narrow ledge around the tower, oilskin coat flapping in the wind. She checks the iron lattice, tugging at bolts rusted by salt. Her gaze drifts to the horizon, where storm clouds gather like a bruise. She mutters to herself, inaudible over the gale, and heads back inside.

INT. LIGHTHOUSE BUNKROOM - NIGHT

Mira lies on the cot, staring at the ceiling. The lamp is out, the room swallowed by shadow save for faint moonlight through the porthole. The wind’s howl is relentless. Another scrape under the door. Mira bolts upright, breath shallow. She fumbles for a match, lights the lamp, and crosses to the door. A second yellowed envelope waits. Her hands shake as she opens it, reading silently. Her face pales.

MIRA
(whispering)
Lila… the bus stop…

She tears the letter apart, pieces fluttering to the floor. Her eyes are wild, chest heaving. The tower groans louder, and a distant rumble of thunder rolls in.

INT. LIGHTHOUSE BUNKROOM - NIGHT

Mira paces, the torn letter fragments scattered across the floor. She stops, staring at the door, then at her own trembling hands.

MIRA
(to herself)
I’m losin’ it. Ain’t no way… ain’t no way I wrote this.

She grabs the barometer, slamming it down on the table. The needle hasn’t moved—still dropping. She curses under her breath, raking a hand through her gray-streaked hair. The radio crackles again.

RADIO OPERATOR HAL
(through static)
Mira, you there? Storm’s closin’ in. Respond, damn it.

Mira ignores it, her gaze darting to the photograph of Lila. She steps closer, touching the image, then pulls back as if burned. The wind outside shrieks, rattling the porthole glass.

INT. LIGHTHOUSE BUNKROOM - DAY

Mira drags a heavy barrel of oil toward the spiral stairs, her face set with grim determination. She’s committed now, no turning back. Sweat beads on her brow as she hauls it up, step by step, her boots echoing on the metal. The tower sways slightly, a low moan vibrating through the stone. She pauses, catching her breath, then presses on.

INT. LANTERN ROOM - DAY

The circular space is a chaos of cracked glass and swaying ropes. Mira secures the barrel near the massive oil lantern, its flame flickering weakly. She nails boards over a shattered panel, each hammer strike echoing like a gunshot. The sea beyond is a roiling black, waves slamming the cliffs below. Another yellowed envelope sits on the lantern’s edge, unnoticed for now. Mira wipes her brow, her hands stained with grime and wax, and mutters to herself.

MIRA
(under her breath)
Got to hold. For her.

Her voice softens, a buried tenderness slipping through. She turns, spotting the envelope. Her face hardens as she snatches it up, tearing it open. Her eyes widen, then close, as if in pain.

EXT. PENZANCE PIER (MEMORY) - DAY

A weathered wooden pier juts into a calm gray sea, gulls wheeling overhead. Sepia tones wash the scene in melancholy. MIRA, younger but already worn, stands with LILA TREWIN, 10, in a too-big coat and tangled hair. Lila clutches Mira’s hand, her wide eyes bright with trust.

LILA
(lilting)
You’ll come back soon, Mum, won’t you?

Mira kneels, her face tight with guilt, avoiding Lila’s gaze. She adjusts the girl’s scarf, her hands unsteady.

MIRA
(low, gravelly)
Soon, love. Promise.

She stands, turning away as Lila waves, small and alone on the pier. Mira’s steps falter, but she doesn’t look back. The memory fades into shadow, Lila’s voice echoing.

LILA
(echoing)
Mum…

INT. LANTERN ROOM - DAY

Mira snaps back to the present, the letter falling from her hand. She leans against the lantern, breath ragged. The storm outside growls, shingles ripping from the roof with a screech. She sinks to her knees, head in her hands, as the tower shudders violently.

MIRA
(whispering)
I left you. I left you…

Her voice breaks, drowned by the gale. The lantern flame gutters, casting her shadow long and broken across the floor.

INT. LIGHTHOUSE BUNKROOM - NIGHT

Rain seeps through cracks in the ceiling, dripping rhythmically into tin buckets. Mira sits on the cot, another letter in her lap. Her face is ashen as she reads, the words hitting like blows.

MIRA
(reading, trembling)
Lila… drowned… a year after…

She drops the letter, hands covering her face. Guilt crashes over her, her shoulders shaking with silent sobs. The storm outside peaks, waves pounding the tower like fists. The radio crackles faintly, Hal’s voice lost in static.

RADIO OPERATOR HAL
(garbled)
Mira… hold on… storm’s…

The static swallows him. Mira doesn’t hear, lost in grief. The photograph of Lila seems to stare at her from the wall, accusing.

EXT. ST. ERTH LIGHTHOUSE - NIGHT

The storm is a maelstrom, waves swallow

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