EXT. CLIFFSIDE – DAY

The wreckage of Harold’s car smolders behind him as he walks, his banjo cradled in his arms. His fingers find the strings of “If You Want to Sing Out, Sing Out,” but his eyes are distant, lost in memory.

The wind catches the notes, carrying them away as his mind drifts back…

FLASHBACK – INT. HOSPITAL ROOM – NIGHT

Harsh fluorescent light washes over antiseptic walls. Monitors pulse with mechanical precision.

Harold stands before a doctor, his posture wooden, face a mask. The doctor’s words land like stones:

DOCTOR
The overdose was severe. Her heart has stopped twice. We have her on full life support, but brain activity is minimal.
(beat)
I’m sorry, but she’s essentially vegetative. We need to discuss end-of-life arrangements.

Harold doesn’t move. Doesn’t blink. Then his shoulders begin to shake.

The first tear falls silently. Then another. And another.

The doctor shifts uncomfortably, then retreats without another word, leaving Harold alone with the whisper of machines and his quiet grief.

BACK TO PRESENT – EXT. CLIFFSIDE – DAY

Harold’s fingers never stopped moving across the strings, the melody continuing unbroken. But something has changed in his expression – a flicker of determination.

He turns sharply, heading toward the hospital with purposeful strides.

INT. HOSPITAL CORRIDOR – DAY

Harold enters, banjo still in hand, bracing himself. A nurse approaches, and for a moment his heart stops – until he sees her smile.

NURSE
(with fond exasperation)
Your friend is quite something. Woke up an hour ago, demanded organic wine, took one sip, and dozed right off again.

Harold stares, uncomprehending.

HAROLD
(barely a whisper)
She… woke up?

NURSE
(chuckling)
That woman’s got more lives than a gambling cat.

INT. HOSPITAL ROOM – DAY

Maude lies peaceful in the hospital bed, looking more like she’s taking a satisfying nap than recovering from near-death. A half-empty wine glass sits on her bedside table.

Harold settles into the chair beside her. After a moment, he lifts his banjo and begins to play “Don’t Be Shy,” his fingers trembling slightly before finding their notes.

Maude stirs. Her eyes flutter open, finding Harold’s face.

HAROLD
(voice thick)
The doctor said… you were gone. That you were…
(swallowing hard)
A vegetable.

Maude’s hand finds his, warm and vital.

MAUDE
(with a familiar twinkle)
Oh Harold, doctors are such gloomy creatures. Always seeing the worst in everything.

A sound escapes Harold – something between a laugh and a sob. Maude squeezes his hand.

MAUDE
(conspiratorially)
Now then. What do you say we get out of this dreary place?

Harold looks at her – still pale, but already plotting her escape – and slowly begins to smile. He lifts his banjo, and this time when he plays, it’s a tune of celebration.

FADE OUT.