Glass Cases & Ghosts

An imagined encounter between Diane Keaton and Mia Farrow—two muses of a man now mostly referred to in sighs and footnotes. They meet unexpectedly at a department store in Manhattan, in the sparkling stillness of the jewelry section. Keaton is brisk, quirky, armored in wit and wool. Farrow is quieter, paler, her voice a half-whisper with years in its folds. What follows is an exchange not of confrontation but of reckoning—between two women who once lived in the same orbit, until the center collapsed.

Scene: Bergdorf Goodman. 5th Avenue, Manhattan. Late morning.
The jewelry section is hushed, reverent. Glass cases gleam with rings that could pay for apartments. Sales associates speak in stage whispers, as if the diamonds might wake.
Diane Keaton, wearing a belted charcoal coat, tilted hat, and her signature war against matching, studies a vintage cuff bracelet with the air of someone who likes the idea of things more than the things themselves.
A few feet away, Mia Farrow, in a pale blue scarf and a look that could be mistaken for demure but is really just exhaustion with the world, peers at a display of antique brooches.
They notice each other at the same moment. A beat of stillness.

KEATON (lightly, cautiously):
Well. If it isn’t the quiet half of a very loud legacy.
FARROW (blinking, soft smile):
Diane. You look like an architect with secrets.
KEATON:
And you look like you still know things no one can prove.

Farrow lets the jab pass. Or maybe she catches it and just folds it into her coat pocket.

FARROW:
I didn’t expect to see you. I thought you only shopped in bookstores and used hat boutiques.
KEATON:
I was looking for a bracelet. For a friend.
You?
FARROW:
Just walking. Trying not to be recognized.
It’s easier now.

Keaton nods. There’s a pause. Not cold. Just... complicated.

KEATON:
You know, I rewatched Hannah and Her Sisters the other day.
FARROW:
Don’t tell me. You hated me in it.
KEATON:
No. I envied you in it. The sadness looked so real.
FARROW:
It was.

They both look down at the cases. Rows of things once meant to mean something.

FARROW:
Sometimes I wonder if it was all worth it. The films. The attention. The... fallout.
KEATON:
Of course it was. He made us both stars. That’s the deal we made. Art in exchange for whatever came after.
FARROW:
You think he saved us?
KEATON:
No. I think we saved him. And he just happened to bring a camera.

Farrow looks away, fingers a delicate pendant.

FARROW:
You never believed me.
KEATON (sharply):
No. I believed something happened. But not that.
You know him. You knew him.

A pause. The air chills slightly. Not from the weather.

FARROW:
I knew who he wanted us to think he was. That’s different.
KEATON (softening):
Maybe.
But he also made us real up there. Not pretty. Not perfect. Just... weird and true and impossible.
FARROW:
And then the rest of it happened.
KEATON:
Yeah. Then the credits rolled and the lawsuits started.

They both let out small, rueful laughs. Different octaves. Same song.

FARROW:
I never blamed you, Diane.
KEATON:
Good. Because I never blamed you either.

The tension dissipates, like perfume fading.

KEATON:
We were both just... cast. First in the movies. Then in the headlines.
FARROW:
I didn’t ask for that role.
KEATON:
Neither did I. But at least we had good lighting.

A beat. A smile from Farrow now. Real. Tentative.

FARROW:
Would you ever work with him again?
KEATON:
No. But I’d still defend Annie Hall like it was a holy text.
FARROW:
I keep The Purple Rose of Cairo in a drawer. Haven’t watched it in years.
KEATON:
But you will.
FARROW:
Maybe. On a day when I feel like believing again.

They both look down at a ridiculous diamond necklace—an absurd thing. Too expensive, too heavy, too designed to be adored.

KEATON:
I think we turned out okay. All things considered.
FARROW:
Do you?
KEATON (with a lopsided grin):
No. But I like pretending.
FARROW:
So did he.

They share a glance. Mutual survivors. Muses. Myths. Women who lived to see the ending—whatever it was.

FARROW:
Goodbye, Diane.
KEATON:
See you in the footnotes.

Fade out.
Credits roll in soft lighting and the faint sparkle of glass cases that never really held what they promised.