August 1998 — Set of The Sixth Sense, Morning
The crew was already buzzing when Neil arrived, cables coiled across the church floor like lazy snakes. The smell of old wood mixed with hot metal from the lights overhead.
Claire had dropped him off early, and Hailey was tugging Cindy toward the makeup truck, begging for another look at "the ghost wounds."
Shyamalan spotted Neil standing near the pews, script sides clutched in one hand. He waved him over.
"So," the director said, a hint of a smile. "I gave some thought to your little… experiment last night. That post-credit idea."
Neil blinked innocently.
"I think I'm going to use it," Shyamalan continued. "Not exactly as you wrote it, but inspired. You'll be surprised."
Neil tilted his head. "Really?"
"Really. You'll also be the co-writer of post-credit, how about it?" Shyamalan studied him a moment longer, voice dropping. "But tell me straight—did you know about Malcolm?"
Neil's heart ticked once, then he let his shoulders slump like only a child could. "I know what I should know. Don't worry. This movie will be a classic in the horror-twist genre for the coming decades. I have faith in the script."
The words hung in the air, oddly mature. Shyamalan's brows twitched, but he chuckled. "Thank you for keeping it a secret from the crew. How did you even know? I don't think your manager knows. I see the look of doubt on Cindy's face—she isn't fully sold on the script yet, I can tell."
Neil blinked. "What are you talking about? Cindy is my manager, and she's on board with any project I agree to work on."
I can't tell you that I know the future, Neil thought. That I came from a parallel world already ahead of this one. As for Cindy, even after telling her that the script ending is phenomenal, she has doubts, mostly because of a young-director at the helm. None of which I can tell you.
The director straightened, shaking his head. "Okay, go. Bruce is coming in now. We'll shoot the church scene today. I need the same energy you gave me in the audition."
Neil shrugged, unbothered, thumbs up. "Okay! No worries."
He padded away toward the pews, sides tucked under his arm. Crew members shifted lights overhead, stained glass spilling red and blue colors across the wooden floor.
I need to prepare some chocolate if I got to channel the same energy, Neil thought. Why does every time I try to method act using my past life memory, I feel like a dementor is sucking out every happy memory? Although I'm slowly getting used to that emptiness, it is still painful in ways I can't explain.
He glanced up at the high church windows, scattered light bleeding across its face from the colorful glass shards.
Although… it would be nice if I got a letter from Hogwarts when I turned eleven.Hehe~
---
December 6, 1998 — Second Swimming Competition
The LA sun bounced sharp off the water, and the pool was packed tighter than last year. Almost thrice.
Banners lined the railings — Pritchett's Closets plastered everywhere — Jay grinning down from every angle like he owned the sport.
Claire clutched Alex on her hip, Phil was fumbling with a camcorder that had no tape in it, and Hailey kept looking at the gummies sold by the stands.
Neil crouched at the edge of the starting block, goggles pressed too tight on his small face. He wasn't nervous. Not exactly. Just aware.
Last year, third. This year, faster. But the other kids are faster too. That's how it works. Everyone levels up.
The whistle blew.
Arms sliced, legs churned, and for a minute the only sound was water thrashing like a storm. Neil hit the wall, pulled up gasping, and glanced at the board.
1st place: 61.2 seconds
2nd place: 62.9 seconds
3rd place: Neil Dunphy — 63.2 seconds
Third. Again.
But better. Last year's second position was 63.5 seconds. Last year, he'd barely scraped 65. This time, he cut almost a second and a half.
Still, the kid in lane four cut two seconds. The kid in lane five shaved one. Just improvement wasn't enough when everyone else improved too.
---
Reporters crowded Neil afterward, cameras flashing. The same local TV guy as last year shoved a mic at him, only this time he wasn't alone or as arrogant.
From the cheers and focus, Neil knew that the crowd had remembered the "genius swimmer," and now they wanted updates. His training. His family. Even whispers about a movie and when he will appear in Conan again.
Neil gave short answers, polite. Inside, he marveled. I thought after last year's fiasco, the reporters will try to do more of the same. Get some bite out of me or pull me down. But I was wrong. Maybe this is the spirit of LA—always moving ahead.
Jay hoisted him onto his shoulders for the photos, the giant Pritchett's Closets banner right behind them. The crowd cheered like he'd won gold.
Neil gripped the medal, small and bronze. Third again. But faster. He'd take it.
---
December 20, 1998 — LetterBox Launch Party
The rooftop of the Sunset Boulevard hotel glowed under string lights and heaters. The city's night air smelled of exhaust and possibility.
Plates of hors d'oeuvres rolled by. Cindy had pulled out every favor: Steven Spielberg arrived with a quiet nod, chatting with Lucasfilm staffers; Ridley Scott hovered near the drinks; even Ron Howard was rumored to have slipped in.
Bruce Willis, Toni Collette, and M. Night Shyamalan milled among producers and casting agents.
Conan O'Brien cracked jokes near the stage, while Lloyd Braun from ABC and a few Warner Bros execs clustered near the photo wall. A handful of LA-based critics and journalists dotted the edges with equal glances.
Neil stood near the stage, juice in hand, observing how the crowd moved. And $50,000 gone, just like that.
Cindy, radiant, clasped a mic. "To LetterBox — where stories live and numbers don't define them!" The crowd erupted in applause.
Nearby, a Hollywood Reporter journalist was murmuring into his tape recorder. A headline ready in his head:
"New Platform Rebelling Against Star Ratings: Teen Prodigy Architects 'Feel-Based' Review System"
Another journalist offered her colleague a clipping from Los Angeles Times:
"IMDB's ten-point tyranny is crushing small films — independent directors claim that one star drop costs them box-office thousands."
---
Neil's lips curled slightly. He knew the fight. He remembered reading a column in a weekly LA arts journal complaining:
"Critics warn: films now live or die by a single point on Rotten Tomatoes. One bad review and the masses flip the switch — artistry drowned by statistical verdicts."
He glanced up at Spielberg, then down at his drink.
They (the directors and the actors) hate the numbers too, but they can't always speak it.
---
Conan bent down so his face was level with Neil's, grinning like he'd just found his next punchline."So, kiddo… for Apollo 13, do I click 'Loved it' or 'Will watch again'?"
Neil didn't even blink. "Depends. Do you cry every time Tom Hanks says goodbye to his wife?"
Conan laughed so loud a few people turned. "Okay, yeah — 'Will watch again.'"
Spielberg, who'd been lingering nearby, leaned in with a half-smile. "I like this. You're letting people talk about what they felt, not what they scored. That's… closer to the truth."
This is why I did it, Neil thought. Because ratings become political. Because the press kills a film for gossip, not its soul.
To Neil, he knew entertainment will always be a propaganda piece and a rumor mill; that's how stories survive in Hollywood. But that's not how it will be on his platform.
He created the platform to not only stop it from being taken over by big studios and big-tech, but to democratize movies, to spread the pop-culture further, moreover to also give movies a chance at box-office despite the scandals of the main cast. 'Not again do I want to see a movie fail because its main actor flung a bag of feces in their ex's bathroom'
He held his glass higher as Cindy invited people forward. The cameras flashed.
Hollywood names approached his platform: a few producers said they'd embed a trailer; a studio exec asked about ad revenue models; a writer thanked him for "letting movies have dignity again."
Across the room, Ridley Scott clinked glasses with Shyamalan. Spielberg patted shoulders with grace.
The reporters quietly pocketed their notes, unsighted but present.
By the party's end, press packets circulated with headlines like:
"Actor-Swimmer-Tech Kid Dethrones Star-Ratings in West Hollywood"
Neil forced himself to smile. Inside: They talk about dignity and numbers. But they don't care to do anything about it. They don't show unity when required and flock to the next best options; always calculating and unprincipled.
Neil hated numbers. At least when it came to movies. A "6.8" didn't tell you anything except that some people were mad about something — maybe the lead actor's divorce, maybe the director's bad haircut, maybe a critic with a grudge.
Art got buried under gossip disguised as math. He'd seen it before, films dismissed not because they were bad, but because the world decided to be noisy about the people who made them.
That's why LetterBox was different. No decimals, no percentages, no "Rotten" stamps. Just feelings.
Pass.
One-time fun.
Loved it.
Will watch again.
Simple, honest, and human.
It forced people to say what they felt, not hide behind stars. A movie could stand on its own, separate from the politics of its crew.
Neil wanted every film to have the chance to breathe — even the messy ones, the flawed ones, the forgotten gems. Numbers reduced movies to math; his system gave them dignity.
When the data came next morning — that the site had increased page hits by 500%, daily users in the tens of thousands, watchlists exploding — the buzz began.
Comments poured in:
"Loved it — revisit at midnight"
"Pass — didn't feel it."
"Will watch again — haunting score, powerful silence"
Those lines, simple and human, made Neil's chest ache with something like victory. The night's lights flickered. LA's distant hum pulsed below.
In that moment, the party was less a triumph than a seed planted in film history.