# PETALS AND ASHES ## Short Film Screenplay (~20–25 min)
Based on Chapter 1 of the work "Petals and Ash"
FADE IN:
INT. FLOR & RAIZ FLOWER SHOP — LATE AFTERNOON
Golden light enters through the dusty display windows. The space is small, alive, crowded with green—pots hanging from the ceiling, succulents on rustic wooden shelves, buckets of flowers on the floor, a glass refrigerator with ready-made bouquets. Everything bears the mark of someone who tends things with their hands.
BETO (27), wavy brown hair, light eyes, an apron stained with soil, kneels behind the counter. He is putting together an arrangement of white lilies. There is dirt beneath his nails. A petal caught in his hair. His movements are precise, delicate—but his shoulders carry a weight that is not physical.
INSERT: Beto's hands tying a white satin ribbon around the lilies. His fingers are beautiful, stained with dirt. They tremble—barely. Just enough.
THE DOORBELL rings.
Beto does not look up.
BETO Good afternoon. I'll be right with you.
His voice is soft. Automatic. The smile of someone who has smiled that way a thousand times.
He finishes the bow. Wipes his hands on his apron. Stands.
And freezes.
REVERSE ANGLE: CAIO (29) stands in the doorway. His silhouette cut out against the golden late-afternoon light. Dark suit, immaculate. Rigid posture. Jaw clenched. Briefcase in hand. His eyes—dark, deep—are fixed on Beto with an intensity that sucks the air from the room.
SILENCE. Long. The ambient sound of the street disappears. Only the low hum of the flower refrigerator and the sound of their breathing remain.
CLOSE ON Beto: his eyes widen. The color drains from his face. The hand holding the satin ribbon slowly closes, crumpling the fabric. His chest rises with a breath he tries to control and cannot.
INSERT: Beto's fist closing around the ribbon. His knuckles turn white.
CLOSE ON Caio: he swallows hard. His fingers tighten around the briefcase handle. His jaw locks—a visible padlock.
THE BOND—we do not see it, but we feel it. THE SOUND DESIGN changes: a low pulse, almost subliminal, like a second heartbeat. It enters slowly and does not leave.
Beto takes an involuntary step back. His back hits the counter. The pots behind him rattle, and a lily sways.
CAIO Beto.
His voice is deep. Restrained. With a rough note underneath—the crack he tries to hide.
Beto does not answer. His mouth opens, closes. His eyes shine—with anger, longing, and something he refuses to name.
BETO (soft, trembling) What are you doing here?
Caio takes one step forward. Just one. He stops. As if he knows that anything more would mean trespassing in territory he himself abandoned.
CAIO I need an arrangement. For an office event.
CLOSE ON Beto: the corner of his mouth tightens. He knows. He knows every microexpression on that face—the way the corner of Caio's eye tightens when he lies, the overly controlled breathing.
BETO There are other flower shops in the city.
His voice falters on the last syllable. Beto hates himself for it. We see it in his eyes.
CAIO I know.
SILENCE.
WIDE SHOT of the shop: the two men separated by ten feet of worn flooring and an ocean of unspoken things. Between them, flowers. Funeral lilies on one side. Living roses on the other.
The low pulse in the sound continues. Constant. Hungry.
Caio looks around the shop. The hanging pots. The succulents. The bouquets in the refrigerator. He looks as though he is memorizing it. As though he is starving for something he cannot eat.
His eyes return to Beto.
CAIO (his voice cracks) Are you okay?
CLOSE ON Beto. The smile he has perfected over the last five years assembles itself on his face—piece by piece, like a mask being put on. Perfect. Convincing. The smile that works with customers, friends, and his mother on the phone.
BETO I'm great.
REVERSE ANGLE—Caio: his eyes narrow. His jaw tightens further. He does not believe him. And for one second—a second the camera holds, stretches, makes last—we see something in his eyes that nearly brings him down: pain. Pure. Raw. The same pain Beto hides.
Then Caio's mask returns. Fast. Efficient.
CAIO I'm glad to hear it. (beat) The arrangement. I need it by Friday. Can I leave the details by email?
CLOSE ON Beto's hands: they tremble. He hides them behind the counter.
BETO (almost a whisper) Sure. The email's on the card.
Beto picks up a business card from the counter. Holds it out.
SLOW MOTION—subtle, almost imperceptible:
Caio extends his hand. Takes the card.
INSERT EXTREME CLOSE-UP: Their fingers touch. Fingertip to fingertip. Skin against skin.
THE SOUND DESIGN explodes—the low pulse intensifies, layers overlapping like a racing heart. Then absolute silence. Not even the hum of the refrigerator. Nothing.
CLOSE ON Beto: his legs give way. He braces himself against the counter. His eyes close for an instant—involuntary, surrendering.
CLOSE ON Caio: he holds his breath. His eyes widen for a fraction of a second. Then they close. Pain.
Caio pulls his hand away. Slips the card into his jacket pocket. He does not look at Beto.
CAIO Thank you.
The words sound like an apology.
Caio turns. Walks to the door. Opens it.
Stops.
MEDIUM SHOT—the back of Caio. We see the suit fabric tighten across his shoulders. The breath he tries to control. His hand on the doorknob squeezing until his knuckles turn white.
REVERSE ANGLE—Beto, behind the counter, looking at Caio's back. His light eyes shine. His mouth opens—as if he is about to say something. He does not.
Caio does not look back.
He leaves.
The DOORBELL rings. The sound echoes through the empty shop. Long. Sad. Like the final chord of a song no one asked to hear.
STATIC SHOT of Beto. He does not move. Five seconds. Ten.
His legs give out—slowly. He leans on the counter. Slides to the floor. Sits between the flower buckets. The funeral lilies beside him. The satin ribbon still between his fingers, crumpled.
He rests his head against the wooden counter. Closes his eyes.
The camera slowly pulls away. HIGH ANGLE—Beto on the flower shop floor, small among the flowers, the golden late-afternoon light gradually fading through the display window.
The low pulse returns. Quiet. Constant. Like a second heart that will not stop beating.
CUT TO:
EXT. SIDEWALK IN FRONT OF THE FLOWER SHOP — CONTINUOUS
Caio stands on the sidewalk. Three steps from the door. He has not moved any farther than that.
His face is turned toward the street, but his eyes see nothing. The hand that held the doorknob now hangs at his side—and trembles.
He reaches into his jacket pocket. Touches the business card. His fingers run along the edge of the paper as though touching something sacred.
He closes his eyes. Breathes. Once. Twice.
He opens his eyes. Straightens his shoulders. Pulls himself back together. The mask returns—piece by piece, like armor.
He walks to the car. Gets in. Closes the door.
INT. CAIO'S CAR — CONTINUOUS
Caio places his hands on the steering wheel. He does not start the car.
CLOSE ON his hands: his fingers grip the leather of the steering wheel. Grip. Grip.
The camera rises to his face. His jaw locks. His eyes shine—but he does not cry. He will not allow himself to.
He looks in the rearview mirror. In the reflection, the Flor & Raiz storefront. The lights are still on. The silhouette of someone on the floor among the flowers.
Caio looks away. Starts the car.
The engine growls. The car pulls away.
CUT TO:
INT. FLOR & RAIZ FLOWER SHOP — NIGHT
The shop is dark. Only the light from the flower refrigerator illuminates the space with a cold, bluish glow.
Beto is still on the floor. He has not moved. The satin ribbon lies loose beside him. The funeral lilies are beginning to droop—petals falling slowly.
INSERT: A white petal falls onto the wooden floor beside Beto's hand.
He opens his eyes. Looks at the petal. Looks at the door.
The door is closed. The bell is still.
Beto raises his hand. Touches his own chest—there, in the center, where the bond pulses. He presses down. As if he could tear it out.
He cannot.
BETO (whispering, to no one) Five years.
His voice breaks.
STATIC SHOT. Long. The camera does not move. Beto on the floor of the dark flower shop, one hand on his chest, petals falling around him like slow snow.
The low pulse in the sound slows. Grows more spaced out. Heavier. Like a tired heart that insists on beating.
FADE TO BLACK.
SILENCE.
Then—only the pulse. One beat. Two. Three.
It stops.
TITLE CARD:
PETALS AND ASHES
FADE OUT.
PRODUCTION NOTES
ESTIMATED RUN TIME: 20–25 minutes
MAIN CAST: - BETO (27)—Omega. Florist. Light eyes, wavy brown hair, soft features. His hands are always covered in dirt or petals. - CAIO (29)—Alpha. Lawyer. Tall, solid build, defined jaw, dark eyes. Always impeccably dressed.
LOCATIONS: - Flor & Raiz Flower Shop (interior and exterior) - Caio's car (interior)
SOUND DESIGN: The bond between Beto and Caio is invisible, but the sound makes it real. A low, subliminal pulse, like a second heartbeat, enters the scene when the two are near each other and remains—varying in intensity with the emotional tension. This pulse is the short film's sonic throughline. It replaces the internal narration: what Beto feels, the audience hears.
CINEMATOGRAPHY: Warm golden light at the beginning (late afternoon), progressively darkening into the cold blue of the flower refrigerator in the final scene. The color transition follows the emotional transition—from the shock of the reunion to the weight of what remains.
ACTOR DIRECTION: The short film lives in restraint. The dialogue is minimal. The story is told through trembling hands, gazes that last one second too long, breaths that falter, masks assembling and coming apart. Every gesture must carry the weight of five years of silence.
The touch of their fingers on the business card is the climax. It must be filmed as though it were the most important scene in the film—because it is.