The cast adapted instantly because Alex had spent two weeks teaching them to react rather than panic. Jack shifted to make room. Charice caught my eye and gave me a tiny nod. The ensemble absorbed me into their tableau as though I'd always been there.
The final verse resumed around me. I stood in the light, heart hammering, while Alex's hand remained firm on my shoulder. Not holding me in place—anchoring me. Telling me I belonged here.
I became aware of the tree's glow washing over us both, and I understood something I'd been too afraid to name. I wasn't only the person who built the framework for others to shine. I was part of what we'd made. All of it. The set, the show, and the impossible thing growing between us.
The orchestra built toward the final chord. Voices climbed. The tree blazed brighter—warm gold and deep green.
The chord resolved.
The voices held, sustained, and the old building hummed in sympathy—the floorboards, the rafters, and the walls vibrating at a frequency I felt in my teeth.
The song ended. The cast held their final poses.
Silence filled the house—not the polite pause before applause, but the stunned quiet of people trying to process what they'd witnessed.
My breath turned shallow. Every inch of my skin tingled. The valley had joined us.
Not subtly. It had sung with us and believed with us. Made that belief visible.
The tree's regular lights—ordinary, explicable, safely electrical—twinkled on as if nothing had happened.
The silence held for one more impossible breath.
Then the house erupted. Two hundred thirty-seven people surged to their feet as a single organism, the sound of their applause crashing against the stage like a wave hitting the shore.
Mrs. Brubaker stood in the wings, clipboard abandoned somewhere, both hands pressed over her mouth. Her shoulders shook. After twenty-three years of Christmas productions, of managing temperamental volunteers, wayward children, and sets that refused to cooperate, she was watching her theater rise to a level it had never reached before.
The cast broke their poses, blinking in the wash of sound and emotion. I tried to retreat toward the wings, but Jack caught my arm.
"Oh no, you don't." He was grinning, eyes wet. "You're taking a bow whether you like it or not."
"I'm not—"
"You're part of this." Charice appeared on my other side. "You've always been part of this. Now the audience knows too."
Jack grabbed her and lifted her off her feet, spinning her once before setting her down and kissing her forehead. Sophie bounced on her heels, teddy bear raised triumphantly above her head. The teenage ensemble had abandoned any pretense of professional composure—they clung to each other in clusters, laughing and crying in equal measure.
I scanned the audience through the gap in the curtains. Marcus was on his feet too, the IV pole swaying as Ryan helped steady him, both boys clapping, hands raised high. Noel had risen on his crutches, applauding as best he could, his face wet with tears he wasn't bothering to hide.
In the third row, Mr. Grimwalls—the newspaper critic who'd attended every production for fifteen years and never given anything better than an "adequate" assessment in his reviews—was clapping above his head. His usual expression cracked wide open into joy.
The cast began their bows. Ensemble first, then featured players, then leads—the traditional hierarchy of curtain calls that suddenly felt inadequate for what we'd all shared. When Jack and Charice stepped forward together, the applause swelled again, laced with whoops and whistles. When Charlie took his solo bow, his mother's voice cut through the noise—"That's my son!"
Then Alex moved to center stage.
The ovation deepened. The audience had watched a man become Santa Claus, and they were thanking him for letting them believe alongside him. Alex bowed once, then again. When the cast lined up for the company bow, he reached for my hand and pulled me forward with him.
I resisted. "I don't—"
"You do." His voice was low, meant only for me. "You always did."
We bowed together. His hand stayed in mine—warm, confident, and visible to everyone in the house. The red coat caught the stage lights. The beard he'd fought with for two weeks sat perfectly against his jaw.
Alex straightened from his final bow and turned toward the wings. The curtain descended, cutting off the roar of applause. In the sudden dimness backstage, he turned to me.
"You came into the light," he said.
"The platform was going to—"
