The orchestra finished tuning—a sound I'd heard hundreds of times, but tonight each instrument seemed to find its pitch with unusual speed and certainty. The conductor raised his baton. The house went dark.
And then the overture began.
The first chord rang through the theater, and I felt it in my chest—resonance. The brass section, usually a half-beat behind on the opening fanfare, nailed their entrance. The strings swelled to fill the acoustic space, finding every corner.
I looked up at the fly system. The rafters appeared ordinary. Ropes and pulleys, dust motes caught in the glow from the work lights.
I ran a mental checklist of potential trouble spots—the department store window that had wobbled during dress rehearsal, the courthouse railing I'd reinforced yesterday, and the rolling platform for the parade float that still pulled slightly to the left.
I couldn't fix them now. Either they held, or they didn't.
Charice appeared beside me, her toy department apron already in place. She was watching Alex.
"He's not nervous," she said quietly. "I've never seen anyone not nervous on opening night."
"No."
"It's strange." She tilted her head. "Good strange. Like the whole building decided to help."
The overture built toward its climax. In thirty seconds, the curtain would rise on the Macy's Thanksgiving Day Parade, and whatever happened next would unfold in front of everyone who'd put their faith in this ragtag production.
Alex caught my eye across the crowded wings. No smile—just a steady look that saidI'm readyandthank you.
The conductor's baton swept down for the final flourish.
The curtain rose.
The parade number landed with the kind of energy that makes audiences lean forward in their seats. Alex's restaged choreography—the staggered entrances and waves of movement he'd coaxed from teenagers who'd never danced together before—transformed what could have been chaos into something almost professional. The ensemble moved like they'd been rehearsing for months, not days.
I looked forward to Charlie's moment.
His scene came midway through the first act, after the toy department had been established and Kris Kringle had taken his place on Santa's throne. The blocking was simple: a young boy approaches Santa with a question about believing in magic. In the original script, it's a throwaway moment—setup for the larger plot about Macy's hiring policies.
Charlie turned it into a showstopper.
The stage lights shifted as he walked toward Alex, and I noticed the spots tracking him with unusual accuracy, as though the ancient lighting rig had decided to pay attention. He stopped at his mark and looked up at Santa.
"But how do you know?" Charlie's voice carried, clear and unforced, the way Alex had taught him. "How do you know what's real and what's pretend?"
Alex leaned forward in the oversized chair, and I watched the last trace of performance fall away from him. He wasn't a Broadway veteran hitting his mark. He was a man who'd learned how to listen. How to be present. How to meet a child exactly where they stood.
"What does your heart tell you?" Alex asked. He recited scripted words, but the gentleness behind them was entirely his own.
Charlie was quiet for a beat longer than he was in any rehearsal. The silence spread through the house—not uncomfortable or empty. Full. Waiting.
"My heart says magic is real," Charlie said finally. "Even when it's hard to see."
Alex smiled. "Then you already know the most important thing. You just have to remember to believe it."
Then Charlie nodded—a small, serious gesture—and the scene moved on.
I exhaled. Beside me, one of the teenage stagehands wiped her eyes with the back of her hand, pretending she hadn't been crying.
The rest of the first act unfolded with the same effortless quality. Cues hit their marks. Quick changes happened without the usual backstage scrambling. The ensemble remembered their harmonies. When Sophie dropped her teddy bear during the toy department scene, Alex incorporated it so smoothly that it looked like blocking we'd planned for weeks.
And then Jack's moment arrived.
He'd been dreading the scene since rehearsals began—the romantic declaration that had reduced him and Charice to helpless giggles more times than I could count. I'd watched him pace backstage during the parade number, lips moving through his lines, hands clenching and unclenching at his sides.
