His thumb traced my cheekbone. "You won't hurt me by being honest about what you need. You'd hurt me by pretending."
The truth of his statement landed.
"After I call Claire," I said, "after I set up—stay close? Not in the theater. I need to do this alone. But nearby. In case I fall apart."
"Where else would I be?"
Finding privacy meant ducking into the prop storage room: mothballs and aged fabric. Racks of costumes crowded the dim space. Angel wings cast strange shadows on the wall, their wire frames creating patterns that reminded me of craftsman's marks.
My hands shook as I dialed.
"Finally!" Claire answered before the first ring finished. "You're set up?"
"Almost. Claire, listen—I need to tell you something."
"Whatever crisis of confidence you're having, save it. You have exactly one hour and forty-three minutes to warm up, hydrate, and remember that you are Alex Garland, who once brought an entire Broadway audience to tears with a single sustained note."
"That's not—"
"Harrison Kent is giving you a gift, darling. The chance to prove that your disaster was an aberration. Now call me when you're ready to go live."
She hung up.
I stared at my phone, memories of my last attempt at "Music of the Night" threatening to surface. I heard the crushing silence after my voice died. Fifty industry professionals watching me crumble. The stairwell where I'd sobbed until I couldn't breathe.
Other memories pushed back. Charlie's face when he finally trusted his voice. Marcus learning to dance with his IV pole. Sophie asking Santa to help her mother remember how to smile.
Underneath all of it was the warm weight of cherry wood in my pocket, carved with marks for hope and belonging.
On the empty stage, Ben helped me position my phone on a makeshift tripod and adjust the lights until they hit the right angles. His hands trembled slightly as he clipped a microphone to my collar.
"The theater knows you now." His voice was barely above a whisper. "It'll help if it can."
As if in response, the ghost light flickered once before steadying into a warmer glow.
Ben kissed my forehead—brief, fierce—and retreated. I heard the workshop door close.
Claire answered on the first ring. "Ready?"
"As I'll ever be."
The camera went live. Harrison Kent's face filled my screen, unchanged from that disastrousPhantomaudition—same steel-gray hair and same piercing gaze.
"Hello, Alex." I heard the familiar mix of authority and artistic pretension. "I have to say, your journey from failed Phantom to small-town Santa has intrigued me. Shall we see what you've learned?"
A pianist appeared in a small window at the corner of my screen, fingers poised over keys.
"'Music of the Night,'" Harrison continued. "From the top. Whenever you're ready."
The accompanist played the introduction. Those first notes filled the dark theater, and for a terrible moment, I was back in that New York audition room. Grief closing my throat. My grandmother dying while I chased a dream that suddenly meant nothing.
My mouth opened, but no sound came out.
The accompanist continued, vamping, giving me space to find my entrance. Harrison's expression flickered—recognition, maybe disappointment.
And then Charlie's voice echoed in my memory:What if magic is real? Even when grown-ups say it isn't?
"Stop."
