"This doesn't change the January audition," Claire continued. "Think of this as a bonus opportunity. If it doesn't work out, you still have the original timeline. But if it does work out..." She let the implication hang. "Two hours, Alex. He'll have an accompanist ready. Call me when you're set up."
She hung up before I could respond.
"Hey." Ben called to me from the wings. "Need help getting out of all that padding?"
I turned to face him, phone still clutched in my hand. Whatever showed on my face made him cross the stage in three quick strides.
"What happened?"
"Everything changed." I told him about Harrison and the accelerated timeline. "He wants 'Music of the Night.' Tonight. In two hours."
Ben's jaw tightened, but his voice stayed steady. "The song from your breakdown."
"The same one."
Silence stretched between us. Somewhere in the theater, a pipe creaked.
"You should do it." Ben's words came out rough. "At least see what happens."
"Ben—"
"The theater has better acoustics than anywhere else." He was already moving toward the wings, every line of his body radiating tension he was trying to hide. "We could set up your phone on the prop table and use the work lights for better visibility."
I caught his hand before he could escape into logistics. "This doesn't change what I told you. I'm not deciding anything until after tomorrow. Until I've kept my promises."
His fingers tightened on mine. "I know. But you need to face this, Alex. Not for Harrison. For yourself."
He was right, and I hated that he was right.
"Help me out of the suit first?"
In the workshop, Ben worked in silence, helping me shed the layers of Kris Kringle. He placed the velvet coat on its padded hanger. The beard in its box. Removing each piece felt like stripping away armor.
"There's something I want to give you." Ben's voice was quiet as he reached into his jacket pocket. "I've been carrying it for days, trying to find the right moment. Maybe there isn't one. Maybe it's now."
He withdrew the cloth-wrapped bundle I'd noticed earlier. Inside was a rectangle of cherry wood, small enough to fit in my palm—the same warm reddish tone as my grandmother's music box.
I traced the carvings with my thumb. The safe harbor mark—I recognized it now, having carved it myself without being taught. The hope symbol Ben had shown me in Johan's journal. And woven between them, something new, a flowing pattern I didn't recognize.
"What's this one?" I touched the unfamiliar mark.
"I don't know." Ben's voice was rough. "I carved it without thinking, the night you told me about the audition. My hands just... knew." He swallowed. "Holly thinks it might be a mark for belonging. For finding where you're meant to be."
The wood was warm in my palm, almost alive. I thought about my grandmother's mysterious marks—the ones Ben had discovered beneath generations of polish on her music box.
"Thank you."
"Whatever happens tonight, and whatever you decide about January—" Ben cupped my face in both hands. "That piece is yours. It's meant to be yours."
I kissed him. Not the desperate collision of need I'd been expecting, but something slower, deeper.
When we pulled apart, Ben's eyes were dark with everything he didn't say. "You need to warm up. Focus."
"I know. I'm terrified."
"Of Harrison?"
"Of singing that song and failing again. Of singing that song and succeeding, and realizing I still want what I used to want." My voice cracked. "Of hurting you."
