Script
Why is there a heartbeat glowing under their hands?
A kid sits on the cracked floor, knees tight to their chest, shivering as blue shadows swallow the room.
Paint flakes off the walls, broken furniture leans like forgotten memories, and dust drifts through the air—cold as winter breath.
Their eyes flicker with fear.
But right under their palms, something pulses—soft, golden, alive.
The darker the room gets, the brighter it glows.
Hope refuses to die here.